There are two things I am absolutely certain of: karma will get me every time, and I cannot defy gravity.
Put them together and what do you get? Kelly at yoga class.
You might recall a column I wrote about a bottle drive fundraiser for my daughter’s school that ended in a spirited competition between myself and another school parent that I refer to as Yoga Mommy. Basically, it was a challenge to see which one of our friends had a higher consumption rate of alcohol and would subsequently allow us to benefit from their liquid diets. I think it says something questionable that Yoga Mommy won by a slim, but all-important margin, ahem. This is where the karma kicks in. To honour my opponent in my defeat, I enrolled in her yoga class.
Committed, the panic began before I even entered the yoga studio. What does one wear to yoga when one does not have a budget for Lululemon? My threadbare stretch pants may not stretch in a downward dog, (neither will I for that matter). Rip. I had visions of Hanes Her Way exposed in mid-air. Sexy. That thought alone almost paralyzed me, but I used the mantra that yoga was not about fashion. Right.
It might be about nail polish though. Finding the courage to enter the yoga studio and unroll the yoga mat, I pulled off my socks and realized I had forgotten the well-meaning pedicure my 13-year-old had given me: left foot neon blue, right foot neon yellow and both lacquered with glitter. My already-pointed freak feet were now parrot claws. Hot.
Yoga Mommy sat at the front of the class looking confident and, dare I say it, joyous at my attendance. Cruel. In a soothing voice, she began with a song in a language that was all Greek to me, except it wasn’t. I had no idea what people were chanting, except for Om. I lip-synched. It was obvious. I was out of my element.
This is where defying gravity enters the picture. I have the balance of a drunken monkey on a tight rope. I routinely fall over when I’m not actually moving. I walk into walls. I knock over people who foolishly attempt to walk beside me and I am a hazard on a bicycle. This was made worse by the fact that I don’t know yoga poses by name, much less practice. While everyone else flowed gracefully from one movement to the other, I was like the kid in the math exam who tries to look at everyone else’s test. I was alone on my yoga mat island. Just inhale. Or was that exhale?
Copying as best I could, I soon realized that I don’t actually know my left from my right. I was a discombobulating pretzel, teetering on the verge of collapse. Oh, but I was determined. I would not lose twice.
I managed not to break wind, (another reasonable fear) and I believe my groans were all inward. When we ended up in child’s pose, I was content to remain there. Forever.
Class ended with Yoga Mommy tucking me in with a blanket and guiding us through meditation. Damn, she’s so good I stopped thinking about my grocery list and deadlines and actually relaxed. It worked.
Yoga Mommy wins again. I guess you can teach this downward dog some new tricks. Yoga hurts so good, I’m now registered for more. Om.