Yoga is like dental floss.
It’s annoying but necessary, and I wish I had discovered its benefits long ago. All this running means I have hamstrings tighter than a struggling actor’s purse strings, calf muscles shorter than my list of Broadway callbacks and joints so stiff, if you smoked me you’d be high.
I’ve been doing yoga on and off for the last ten years now, more regularly than not, as I bargain with myself that if I do one class a week I can run as much as I like. So far back in Sydney this hasn’t happened but I will start again as soon as I find a yoga mat for less than the $80 they’re selling them for at the local Yoga studio. Are they serious? It’s a thin piece of rubber. My one in America cost $7.
I know it’s good for you, but I find it very difficult to take Yoga seriously. Firstly they call you a warrior. What am I fighting? A couple of tight tendons and a knot or two. Secondly the outfits. It’s like being at a semi-nudist colony - everyone decked out in their high-waisted lycra short shorts, so that when they bend over in a stretch, the personal behind them – usually an unfortunate me – gets a close up view of what makes them the gender they are.
Then there are the phrases they use – “full appreciation of the pose,” and “engage the body, learn to reach and recede.” It’s a bit too up in the air for me. I need definites. “Stretch till it hurts,” or “hold till you shake,” would work better for me. Tangible objectives that I can actually determine.
This is why running is so much better for a personality like me. Distance, time, rate of breath and level of discomfort, these are all easily determined in a good old fashioned run.
And since I am still boycotting expensive yoga mats, it is still the only form of exercise available to me. And that is just the way I like it.