This confession will probably disqualify me as a New Yorker of a Certain Age, but - I seem to have made it past the half-century mark without ever having taken a yoga class. That's right. Not one. At long last, a tempting offer from Groupon finally broke through the sturdy resistance to any form of healthy activity that has carried me unscathed through the Barnard gym requirement (I took the Phys Ed edition of a gut course - something called Relaxation - twice), a gym membership that had free classes (the only class I took was belly dancing, and I spent the rest of my of time sitting on the exercise bicycle watching re-runs of Supernatural and laughing my head off). But Groupon finally got to me, with a very cheap deal on Incredibly Introductory Yoga for Total Beginners Who Are Completely Out of Shape, in a facility that is literally across the street from my apartment. In short - the Well of Excuses finally ran dry.
After a number of alarums and excursions, in which I repeatedly called the facility to find out when the classes were being held, how long each session was, whether or not the instructor was a meanie who would think I ought to be hooking my left ankle behind my neck immediately, and who would shame me publicly if I didn't get it on the first try, and whether or not I had to own a yoga mat (I didn't - they rent them to you for a buck, which is so cheap that even I couldn't quibble that first they rope you in with the cheap classes on Groupon and then they soak you for the yoga mat rentals) I finally got there this afternoon. I was going to go last week, but due to an unfortunate incident in the bathroom, in which I somehow caught my left pinky toe on a short wall that buttresses the end of my bathtub, and the toe went in one direction while my foot kept going another, I wound up at the Urgent Care last Tuesday, rather than at the yoga studio. The top of my foot is still an interesting shade of blue, but at least nothing is broken. The toe in question still looks like a plumped-up cocktail frank, but the swelling is slowly subsiding.
Now, first of all, I have to say that everybody was very, very nice, and most especially so the instructor, who, upon hearing that I had never done yoga before, put me off to the side near the wall, so that I could cheat and prop myself up against it while more agile people were doing those crazy things where they stand on their shoulders with their feet sticking straight up in the air. I'd also murmured with a blush that I had suffered a foot injury, as if it were not quite a nice thing for a lady of my years to confess, and she gave me an understanding wink and told me to just follow along as best I could.
The class was an hour and a half long. I have not sat cross-legged on the floor since elementary school, so right away, I was uncomfortable. I kept shooting surreptitious glances at all the serene people sitting in the classic Buddha pose with their legs crossed and their feet resting on their thighs and their palms turned up, looking like they were pinching a flower stalk between their fingers. They all looked transcendent. I was wretchedly aware that I merely looked like I couldn't find any way to sit that didn't make something hurt after thirty seconds.
Within ten minutes of the actual inception of the class, I had a mantra reverberating through my head. My mantra, unfortunately, was: THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS THIS SUCKS. I was absolutely convinced that I would never, no, never want to do this again. I kept trying to see the clock and find out how much longer this torture was going to last, but I was upside down with my hair hanging in my eyes, which made it difficult.
The thing is, after a while it got a little better. I wouldn't say that I ever attained the state of tranquil bliss that the instructor kept promising me, but I wasn't flat-out in agony anymore. Actually, by the time I left, I felt pretty good. Sort of peckish, as a matter of fact, and wanting to eat something for lunch that wasn't a cheese Danish. Well - it's about progress, not perfection, right?
So I walked into my front door, feeling all Zen-like and virtuous, they way you do after you've made yourself do physical exercise you're avoided doing for several decades, and what do you think? My son greeted me with the words, "I hate to tell you, Ma, but I went to the orthodontist like you said for that checkup to make sure my retainer still fits and everything, and my teeth have shifted and she wanted to take X-rays but you were at that yoga class and I have to go back later with another check for, I think she said, like, a hundred and ten dollars, and oh yeah, I might need oral surgery to have all my wisdom teeth out, even though they haven't come in yet."
While I was still reeling from this, the dog came bounding up, slobbering with kisses, and my son added sternly, "Don't let her kiss you, The toilet didn't quite flush, right before I left, and I didn't notice because I was in a rush, and she fished everything that was in it out and dropped it on the floor. I cleaned the bathroom, but you should probably brush her teeth. Here - I'll get the toothbrush."
The dog grinned at me ingratiatingly and then, seeing my horrified expression, slunk away to scuttle under the bed and sulk at the sight of the toothbrush, because she knows what that means.
So if you want to know whether doing yoga contributes to a state of serenity, I am probably the wrong person to ask.
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