Ho-ga

I am simultaneously awesome and terrible at yoga.  The physical part is no sweat, literally or figuratively.  Of course, the classes I attend are not advanced, but still.  I am so freakishly flexible that sometimes I feel guilty for being so awesome when I know that people in class who are struggling probably see me and wonder why their own bodies can't contort into completely unnatural positions.  Which brings me to the terrible part.  I am a complete and abject failure when it comes to the spirit of yoga.  I am a big old Judgey McJudgerson.  Judge Judy.  I am a mean girl.  At least, my inner-monologue is a very mean girl who would give Regina George a serious run for her money.

OMG, you're not seriously already sweating during the first downward dog.  Because that's gross.

Yoga is not about walking in off the street and being the best.  It's not a contest, it's not about winning, and there is no perfection in yoga.  It just doesn't exist.  And it isn't one-dimensional.  It's not just about how much your anatomy functions like a Gumby figurine.  It doesn't matter if you're a Cirque du Soleil performer with rubber bones and surgically removed ribs.  No matter how flexible, how strong, how balanced you are, if your ego worms its way into your poses, you're doing it wrong.  And I can't make my brain stop thinking about other people's flaws!  Yoga is supposed to be about YOU (me).  It's doing the best you can with what you have, and "honoring your body" and feeling "oneness" with others and all that foo-foo.  I can get on board with that, really, I can.  They are nice ideas.  But way harder to do than standing on one foot while holding the opposite big toe and drawing that leg up so my knee touches my face.  Way, way harder.

Last night, I went to my first yoga class in a while.  I was really looking forward to it, because I last attended two weeks before Christmas.  I was hoping this would be a soothing, quiet session, but two minutes into class, as we were sitting cross-legged with our eyes closed 'finding our center', my hopes were dashed.

There is a large group of girls that come to yoga every other week.  I gather that they are doing this for some kind of college requirement, as they seem to be about college-age, they travel in a pack, and they range in enthusiasm from moderately interested to apathetic to living in complete dread of every pose.  The lineup of this group has changed substantially from last semester to this one, but the pattern is the same.  They roll in a few minutes after class has started, and there are too many of them for this to be a silent, unintrusive process.  They come in chatting and laughing and take their good old time removing coats, shoes, and socks.  Those of us who had the courtesy to arrive on time are forced to break concentration and rearrange our mats to make space for the late-comers.  I think it is at this point that I get irritated and start giving my inner-monologue permission to be a complete and total biotch.

To be fair (to myself), I will say that I'm not shallow enough to judge what these girls are wearing.  At least, I'm not judging the girls who look sloppy.  Because this girl right here isn't winning any fashion awards in her hunter green polyester/fleece blend American Eagle lounge pants circa 1999.  Unless people get fashion awards for wearing part of their high school gym uniform 8-12 years later.  I know I look like a scrub...after hearing the phrase "it's not a fashion show" ad nauseum throughout my entire childhood and adolescence whenever I agonized over what to wear, I can finally accept that the gym is definitely one place where I should not care about my appearance.  That being said, I will relentlessly judge anyone who looks too dressed up for yoga...like the 65+ year old woman who comes on Saturday mornings, late, fully coiffed and made up, with some kind of leopard print silky shirt and lots of jangling gold bangle bracelets.

But I digress.  So these hussies tramp into the studio like they own the joint and, to the instructor's credit, she doesn't miss a beat and she doesn't backpedal to accommodate these egregious violators of the social contract.  Eventually they settle into place and start halfheartedly taking poses.  Soon we find ourselves hanging out in a downward dog pose after we cycle through our first 'vinyasa'.  You may or may not have ever found yourself in this position before, but after viewing the illustration below, you will probably agree that it does not look difficult. 

Source

It is not difficult.  It is a basic warm-up stretch.  So you will join me in my surprise and sadness when I report that I saw, from my upside-down vantage point, two girls behind me panting and sweating.  They had dropped down to their knees and were guzzling water and toweling the dripping sweat from their faces.  In the first 10 minutes of class.  Does.  Not.  Compute. 

If I were a better person, I would channel that observation into thinking positive and encouraging thoughts for these girls, and feeling grateful for my own body's abilities.  But I'm not.  I'm a terrible person!  Instead of doing that, even after the thought crosses my mind, I twist it into feeling superior!  It's horrendous, and I'm pretty sure if anyone else in class could hear my thoughts, I would get jumped and summarily smothered with a yoga mat.  And they would probably use the sweatiest one, just for good measure.  Like, ew.

But fortunately, my terrible thoughts are my own, so we soldier on.  The girls who aren't writhing in pain or hyperventilating continue to apathetically follow the instructor.  There is usually a lot of self-conscious giggling from these girls when they inevitably really suck can't do something or look feel ridiculous.  That's super annoying, because I've been programmed to assume that anyone giggling behind me is giggling at me, and then before I can reason with myself I'm all, "Yea, I'll give them something to laugh about" and I start pushing harder into whatever pose we are doing.  This just serves to push me farther to extremes, physically getting more out of yoga but mentally backsliding. 

It's a terrible inverse proportion of success, and the more I think about it, the more I think I should just go to a more challenging class that will put my ego back in check.  One where I will consider it a victory simply if I make it through class without farting.  You know what?  Let's be honest, that's never not a victory.