I am currently trying to expand my flexibility.
Since turning 40, much of me cracks and grumbles when I move, and I really don’t care for it one bit.
There is a lot of buzz around about mindfulness, yoga and living a more ‘in the moment’ lifestyle.
So hey, despite the fact that I struggle to sit through for more than five seconds, and have a boredom threshold of 45 seconds. I thought I should maybe jump on board the yoga wagon.
Me and the eldest daughter have been rocking up to the local town hall and trying our hand at beginner yoga on a Monday night. It mainly consists of us both trying not to fart and giggle, and proving that inflexibility is strong in our gene pool.
Then this week, after attending two entire beginner yoga sessions I decided to step it up a notch, proclaim myself an expert and go to an intermediate class.
Inside a hot pod.
Yes – I decided to try HOT YOGA.
Before coming to this decision I should have compiled a list of things I don’t really like….
It would have looked like this.
Things I don’t like
Small spaces
Hot spaces
Sweaty spaces
Sweaty people touching me
Whale music
Sweating
Had I complied such a list – I may had gone to Costa instead and just tucked into a Millionaire shortbread and a nice cup of tea.
But no, 12.45, last Wednesday, I found myself with my arse pointing towards an inflatable ceiling, with my leg bent at an angle that made me look like I had been hit by a car, sweating absolute buckets.
I panted less in labour.
Around me were women who didn’t seem to look like they had suddenly been plunged into the middle of the menopause without a seconds warning. Their bodies seem to flex in time to the whale singing soundtrack where as mine merely melted into a pool of smelly water.
Each move ensured I emitted a moan that sounded sexual but was anything but, I got chub rub on my calve from my foot – where I tried to adopt a tree like pose but by toes merely caused a rash upon my skin.
My warrior pose looked like I was surfing on a wave of sweat.
The zen like state I was supposed to be creating was replaced by one of mild claustrophobia panic.
Of course I went with friends, which helped.
One looked like a freaking yoga goddess, wisely dressed in shorts and a crop top. Myself and the other, looked like beetroot plane crash survivors as we sweated in full gym kit beside her.
As I found a position I could manage.
Hands on my thighs, back on the floor, legs spread – I think back in the day, More magazine had it as Sexual position Number 37, – you get the gist.
Anyways, I had that position nailed. Butt clenched to prohibit farting, and I was approaching zen.
Then my mate whispered, “push”….
The zen fecked off to the woman behind me, and once again I was simply a sweaty mess.
Note to self – always write a list before trying a new class….
Not all exercise is right for everyone……
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