October 2003 Issue - Essay # 5
The
Yoga Bandwagon
By Tamara Berry
“Are
these people for real?” I asked incredulously, my mouth hanging open
like a startled codfish. I
felt as though we had walked into a modeling class where everyone was an
overachiever. The women
surrounding us were honest-to-God stick insects.
I nudged Jennifer and pointed at a woman standing in front of me.
“I swear her legs are smaller around than my arms.” Wordlessly,
we watched as the more experienced and tissue-paper thin members of the
class started to lay out their yoga mats and settle themselves
cross-legged onto the floor. In
unison, we started to back up to what we assumed was the rear of the
classroom. I attempted to
appear nonchalant as I laid out the towel I had brought along in place
of a mat. The class was
already costing me a fortune. A
towel was all I could afford. A
quick survey of the room led me to another observation.
My clothes looked a little out of place amidst the black leotards
and colorful shirts that dotted the room.
I recalled how I had snickered oh-so-snottily at Jennifer when
she appeared at my house in fashionable yoga pants and a shirt visibly
adorned with a Nike swoosh. “How
much did you spend on those clothes?” I had asked her, unable to hide
my superiority as she walked in the door.
I had chosen a worn pair of hospital scrubs and a ratty T-shirt.
At the time, my disdain for labels filled me with lackadaisical
pride. Doubts, however, were
beginning to settle in. I
wanted a swoosh of my own. “Okay,
class!” an impossibly perky voice rang out from the doorway.
An equally perky body came bounding in the doorway, driven by a
source of energy that seemed to come straight from the air around her.
Each movement the small blonde woman made seemed both effortless
and filled with an amazing caliber of calorie-burning power.
She was like a puppet being mastered by Geppetto after one too
many cups of cappuccino. Jennifer
and I watched in silent horror as the instructor spread out her pink
yoga mat directly in front of us. Instead
of the back of the classroom, it looked as though we had inadvertently
chosen the front. Jennifer
and I looked at each other and simultaneously stifled a groan. “Let’s
begin with some heavy breathing and meditation!” our instructor said
as she settled onto the ground, one leg twisted oddly over the other.
I gave a contented nod. Breathing
is something I feel I’ve always done rather well. Unfortunately,
the breathing and quiet sitting only lasted five minutes.
It wasn’t long before we were on our feet, ready to begin what
everyone had assured me was the most relaxing thing in the world next to
professional massages and long, hot bubble baths. I
will confess that the bandwagon of trend usually passes me by three or
four times before I finally get fed up with choking on the dust and
clamor on board. I am the
queen of the last to know and the last to try.
So when the stick insects started to bend and twist in directions
that up until that point I had considered impossible by the very laws of
physics, I was struggling to balance touching my toes with adjusting
wayward undergarments. No
sooner had I mastered one position enough so that gravity wasn’t
forcing me face down into the carpet than we moved on to another.
And another. And
another. “This
time let’s stretch a little deeper!” the instructor said, moving her
leg above her head in one fluid and effortless movement.
I wanted desperately to ask her what it was like to have no
skeleton. Even Gumby would
have been jealous of her abilities. Although
my sister-in-law had assured me that she was as inexperienced in the
arts of yoga as I was, she proved to be surprisingly limber, and my
pride started to shrink into the pit of my stomach as she outshone me by
light-years. I could see the
instructor giving her encouraging smiles and whispering helpful hints
throughout the class. “No,
turn a little more to the right!” “That’s
a girl! You’ve got it
now!” Not
only was I the only person present with actual bones inside my body,
apparently I wasn’t even worth the effort of encouragement.
The only looks I received from the instructor were filled with
pity and mild horror. It
is my personal belief that every sport has a passion for labeling.
Golf has bogeys and birdies, tennis has love, soccer and hockey
have hat-tricks and chess has checkmates.
But every other sport known to mankind pales in comparison to
that of yoga when it comes to making up names for its idiosyncrasies.
The lotus position. The
tree. The child pose.
The downward-facing dog. I
couldn’t decide who was more ridiculous, the person who came up with
these inhuman poses or the screwball who named them.
Towards
the end of the class, when my muscles were screaming for a break, the
instructor spoke those magical words that it seemed I had waited my
whole life for. “Okay,
let’s wind down now!” she called out from beneath her buttocks.
We
were told to lie on our mats and close our eyes, resting however felt
the most comfortable. An eye
bag plopped down magically at my side and I placed it across by eyelids
with an audible sigh. It
felt cool and luxurious against my forehead.
This I could get used to. The
room was very quiet as I lay there feeling my exhausted limbs melt into
the carpet. The silence was
broken only by the sound of the clock above my head ticking as the
seconds passed. All of a
sudden, a heater kicked into action behind me, pinging with all the
glory of a tiny chipmunk band. The
combined sounds were rather rhythmic, and I smiled with the only muscles
in my body that seemed to have anything left inside of them.
But when the instructor chirped out one last request that we
chant together to rid ourselves of lingering stress, and the sounds of
“shhaaaannnntiiii” and “ommmm” added to the percussion backdrop,
I couldn’t help but feel that I had somehow been transported into a
Volkswagen commercial against my will.
“Now,
everyone pull your legs up against your chests!” the instructor’s
voice permeated the air. “And
hold!” As
I lay on the ground in an awkwardly rigid fetal position, ostensibly
focusing on my chi, the room was suddenly filled with the unmistakable
sound of passing gas from somewhere across the room.
I released my legs, rolled onto my side, and tried my best to
contain the laughter that surged through my body in waves.
And while everyone else in the room held their positions and
acted as though nothing had happened, my superiority came out of hiding
and settled back onto my shoulders where it belongs.
I realized that swoosh or no swoosh, perhaps I wasn’t so out of
place after all.
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Author's Biography I am a twenty-three year avid reader who likes to dabble with pen and paper every now and then. I live in Washington state with my husband, dogs, and cats. E-mail Tamara at eternalklutz@hotmail.com
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Essay
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