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I went to my first yoga class recently. My husband gave me a gift certificate. I think it’s his way of getting me out of the house and away from the Home Shopping Network.
My friend, Danielle, and I showed up for the first “flow” class at 8:15am Saturday, a significant achievement for me since usually I’m still seeing the inside of my eyelids at that time of the morning. Julie, our instructor, as thin as a rubber band and equally stretchy, introduces herself and asks about our yoga experience. If you count the stretching and maneuvering I have done trying to find matching lids to Tupperware containers while hunched in a cabinet below the stove, I’m good.
Julie starts the class by asking for requests. I have a fleeting thought about shouting out ’Brick House’ by the Commodores but stifle it. We start in a cross-legged position, breathing deeply through our noses, trying to create a sound somewhat like an asthmatic cat clearing a particularly stubborn hairball.
After a few “ommmmms” Julie starts transitioning us to different positions with names like “Warrior”, “Downward Dog” and “Cobra.” I begin to think they should have names like, say, those extreme rides at amusement parks; The “Zipper”, “Terminator”, “The Rack” and “Death Stretch” come to mind.
At this point I’m way beyond the ‘Hokey Pokey’ and have entered someone’s version of “Twister” Hell. I no longer have any idea where my limbs are. “Be in the present,” Julie tells us, in one of those voices reserved for Mary Poppins and kindergarten teachers. I know I’m quite ‘present’ because I swear I hear my muscles screaming. Every now and then, Julie comes over and helpfully repositions me so that the muscle pain is even more exquisite.
My friend, Danielle, the human pretzel, gives me one of those ‘you’re doing great’ looks and I want to reach over and pull her mat out from under her. Instead, I consider the possibility of mastering these positions thereby becoming the bedroom gymnast my husband has always wanted.
I’m sweating profusely now. Julie, in those dulcet tones of hers, coos “Lean to the right and we’re massaging the liver.” I’m thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to massage my liver with a cold, frosty beer’.
During the next stretching sequence I become worried that my c-section scar is going to explode and my uterus will fall out. This thought occurs to me just before I lose my balance and fall over in a move I call the “Dying Crone”.
Now we’re all on the floor, on our backs, with our cellulite-embossed bottoms pressed against the wall and our legs in the air, a position I swear Julie referred to as “Extreme Tibetan Gynecologist”. I’m thinking this isn’t so bad until Julie performs a couple of moves usually reserved for prepubescent Cirque du Soleil performers and ends up arching into a handstand.
“Find a position that’s comfortable for you,” purrs Julie. I immediately curl into the fetal position. Julie starts the rhythmic beat of the gong, entreating us to feel our “fingers and toes and the world around us.”
And then, the session is over. I am told to hydrate for the rest of the day, which I take to mean ‘massaging my liver’ with an Advil-based margarita or three.
Yoga may not be for everyone, but I remember feeling surprisingly limber two days after my first class. I’m thinking I might just have to give yoga another try. Now, all I need to do is tape that gift certificate back together.
For more of Nancy’s humor, visit her website at www.mirthquakes.com.
ABOUT NANCY:
Nancy Franklin is a healthcare marketing and communications executive who lives with her husband and teenaged son and daughter in a house over which she has no control. When she isn’t debating household chore responsibilities, driving privileges or curfews she delights in writing about the ways her aging body and mind are betraying her.
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