Yoga Stresses Me
Ah, yoga! Let’s start with the attire. I have to wear form-fitting clothes that hug the body just right. I’m aiming for maximum comfort and minimum injury, anticipating the high probability that I will trip on a hem or a sleeve while doing one of the more complicated moves.
Already I have a problem with form-fitting. This style was created by someone whose form had no problem fitting in those elasticized-show-your-boobs-abs-curvy butt-and-calves-at-the-same-time exercise outfits. Yes, the ones that you can wear after exercising for 5 years, eating only lettuce leaves and carrots (like a rabbit), but obviously without procreating like one.
So I put on the farthest thing from an elasticized form-fitting sports outfit without actually wearing a Glad trash bag. Oh, I’m nowhere near glad, and I haven’t even gotten to the yoga studio. Because yes, I’m going to a studio, complete with dark lighting, mood candles, and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. And this sound, drives me up the wall. Yes, I know it’s supposed to calm me, but I just walked in from zero-degree weather. I can’t feel my toes or my fingertips, I know my nose is red and I probably have snot coming out of it, but all I know for sure is that my lips keep losing, at least, half a pound of skin per minute, and that I methodically have to remove it with my teeth. Don’t ask me why. And, of course, now my lips are bleeding but let’s get back to the waves.
Yes, those waves remind me how miserable I am in this weather, that I could be, should be on a beach. Which beach? Any beach, the beach on the soundtrack, just a hot beach, with nice white sand, and beautiful crystal clear aqua-colored water…, and suddenly I want to punch somebody. What am I doing here? If I can’t be on the beach, I should be in a kickboxing class. I need to relieve my stress. Oh, yes, I’m at yoga class.
Ok, so the teacher begins. I need to focus on my breathing, be aware of it. Are you kidding me? I don’t want to be aware of my breathing. God made breathing silent and automatic so that we wouldn’t have to worry about it; so we could concentrate on other important things like hunting for food, or shopping for a new Chanel bag.
But fine, I’m trying. I’m really trying, and then the moves begin. I’m supposed to stand on one leg with my arms stretched over my head, and not fall down. I begin to wobble, never mind I know I look ridiculous, everyone else looks as ridiculous as I do, right? So I start looking around and I realize that everyone has perfect posture. Everyone looks relaxed, in tune with the universe, and all I can think about is that I look like an ugly flamingo and that my nose, which by now has gotten its feeling back, is itching and I can’t scratch it.
We go down to the floor and then my stress level peaks. How does that girl put her breasts on the floor between her open legs, while keeping her back straight as a rod? And then I notice she is wearing one of those outfits, yes the elasticized-so-on-and-so-on one, and now her butt is in my line of sight, and I can see that she’s wearing a thong. A THONG? Really? I’ve never been able to wear one of those things! I’m sure it was invented by a man. No woman in her right mind would have ever come up with such an abnormal concept. But that’s a whole other story.
I hear the teacher in the background saying, “Breathe, breathe, clear your mind.” l would, if it weren’t for the pinched nerve I just got on my neck from holding a pose not meant for average bodies to sustain. I’m in pain, and the deeper I breathe, the more pain I have.
I settle back into a crossed-leg sitting position, the one I mastered back when I was one-year-old. I breathe deeply and slowly. I try to prepare myself for the next pose, but all I can think is: F&%K THIS. I’m out of here.
I walk out of the studio, and finally, FINALLY, I can relax.
Post Originally Published on 8/28/2011