Tag Archives: yoga classes

Am I now a Yogi?

No, Silly, but I have now been to three yoga classes and am booked in for not only my fourth but my fifth as well.

Pause for applause.

Having been lucky enough to happen upon a class where I am not the oldest, I am not the least supple (amusingly, I have just corrected subtle to supple but fyi I am certainly not the most subtle either) and I am not the most oddly attired, I must continue with this interesting, this difficult, this potentially life affirming form of physical and mental exercise I fear.

Pause for applause.

C……. our teacher is kindness personified. She doesn’t make me feel stupid.

“I usually teach from here,” she whispered to me as I bundled up my mat and scurried to another space in the room.

“Let’s just get you a yoga mat,” she whispered as she removed the what I now know to be a Pilates mat from under me and swopped it for a thinner, longer, righter mat.

“Can you tell this is my first time? I asked.

“I’m beginning to get the picture,” she whispered as she moved an old hand out of the way so I could have a clear sight line to her and thus imminent downward dog perfection.

This was a critical point in my fledgling career. Mrs Carmichael’s yoga class status could have gone one of two very different ways. The class clown was just bubbling to get out and in other circumstances and in an environment with less whispering it would have burst forth from my joker painted lips. But it wasn’t and it didn’t.

“Thank you,” I said.

Pause for applause.

I wasn’t half bad. Well, I was bad at about half of the class but I did like the cat manoeuvre and the ten minute relaxation session at the end was fab-u-lous.

With a mental note to get a sports bra or yoga top (critical for all tipping forward asanas I now realise) I rebooked for week deux.

Pause for applause.

And week three a week later. And even though at least half the class, on hearing that C……. would be in Lisbon and M….. would be the temporary teacher, moaned and cancelled their spots on the gym floor with alacrity, I did not.

Are you getting sick of clapping yet?

Yesterday M……. took our much diminished class. He looked like a yogi, from the harem pants (sans undergarments) to the ponytail to the lithe thin body. He sounded like a yogi (or he was speaking in an Indian dialect), his in- breath loud, his out- breath louder.

imaging the pose but with longer hair and more dangly bits (gallery hip.com)
imaging the pose but with longer hair and more dangly bits (gallery hip.com)

I was quite poor at most of his exercises.

“Is that hurting?” he asked after spotting my puce stretched face in the mirror.

“Yes,” I grunted.

“Well, why are you doing it then?” And, as M……. explained to the whole class that yoga was a journey not a destination, that there is good pain and bad pain and that breathing cannot be perfected if we are uncomfortable, I noticed most of my fellow classmates uncurling along with Yours Truly. What a relief.

I was an inch taller at the end of an hour and a half and I think I had a little sleep as we relaxed for more than the allotted time.

I have booked M…….. for an extra class tomorrow.

Pause for applause. Encore.

 

 

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