I have been doing yoga for over ten years now. Theoretically, this should mean I am now as bendy as a pretzel and as spiritually enlightened as the Dalai Lama. But perhaps you need to do it more than once a week for that to happen.
It’s not like I was even a complete novice ten years ago. I’d done one or two classes back in the eighties, before it became the fashionable pursuit it is now. In those days you never worked up a sweat. It was all about lying around as the incense wafted over you.
Back then, there was only one type of yoga, Hatha Yoga. Nowadays there is more variety than you know what to do with – Iyengar, Ashtanga, Bikram, Kundalini, Jivamukti? It’s like choosing milk in the supermarket.
But going to yoga classes is much better than watching yoga videos. Some of those are pretty hard core.
Have you ever found yourself on your back, knees either side of your ears, looking up at a hole in the crutch of your tracksuit pants? Add a dressing gown cord around your ankles, a soccer ball between your thighs, a Tupperware container under your bum, a pillow under your shoulder blades and your head on a picnic blanket. All whilst being told to breathe deeply and enjoy the deep serenity these poses bring. No? Just me then.
But I keep going back. Because it’s good for me. Because I sleep better. Because yoga instructors look amazing and I want to look like them.
So I will relax, rid myself of negative thoughts, breathe in the silver, blow out the black and get myself some more down-face dog.