Yoga is ruining my life
Laziness being an integral feature of my character, I soon realised that if I wanted to stay skinny without breaking a long-standing commitment to feeding my face with curry, cashew nuts and crispy duck, I was going to have to do some exercise. Step forward yoga: the perfect lazy person’s fitness regime. No undignified jogging or humiliating aerobics routines for me thank you very much – I would be spending my evenings sedately stretching my way to a fitter, more toned body, all without breaking into a sweat. Blessed with hypermobility syndrome, those cracking joints would come in handy for popping limbs out into impressively painful-looking positions. All in all, a civilised and leisurely past time. Also, great potential for showing off drunkenly to friends.
Ah, how wrong I was. My first mistake was joining a class taught by a crazy vegan Sri Lankan who rises every morning at 2.30am to practise for 3 hours before going off to work. He teaches one, sometimes two classes every evening and then returns home for a plate of steamed vegetables and four hours’ sleep. His classes are moulded on the 80’s principle of “no pain, no gain” and he has never once said anything remotely “listen to your body”–like. My god! What was I thinking?
Unfortunately, by the time I realised what I’d let myself in for I was hooked. It turns out that I didn’t just join a yoga class, I joined a cult as well. There’s no point in me trying to escape now – I’ve been fully indoctrinated. I go to my teacher’s house for Sri Lankan curry, socialise with the other girls and boys, apologise profusely if I can’t make a class and turn down any clashing social engagements for fear of letting down teacher and the class.
This wasn’t meant to happen! I’m not sure how I’ll ever get away. Long after I’ve moved to the Home Counties to become an insufferably hypocritical pinko liberal with a barn conversion and a drawer full of knit-wear, I’ll still be hauling my aching bum muscles up to London for 25 rounds of sun salutations, a stack-full of asanas and a plate of vadai.
Ah, how wrong I was. My first mistake was joining a class taught by a crazy vegan Sri Lankan who rises every morning at 2.30am to practise for 3 hours before going off to work. He teaches one, sometimes two classes every evening and then returns home for a plate of steamed vegetables and four hours’ sleep. His classes are moulded on the 80’s principle of “no pain, no gain” and he has never once said anything remotely “listen to your body”–like. My god! What was I thinking?
Unfortunately, by the time I realised what I’d let myself in for I was hooked. It turns out that I didn’t just join a yoga class, I joined a cult as well. There’s no point in me trying to escape now – I’ve been fully indoctrinated. I go to my teacher’s house for Sri Lankan curry, socialise with the other girls and boys, apologise profusely if I can’t make a class and turn down any clashing social engagements for fear of letting down teacher and the class.
This wasn’t meant to happen! I’m not sure how I’ll ever get away. Long after I’ve moved to the Home Counties to become an insufferably hypocritical pinko liberal with a barn conversion and a drawer full of knit-wear, I’ll still be hauling my aching bum muscles up to London for 25 rounds of sun salutations, a stack-full of asanas and a plate of vadai.
posted by Shinykatie at 3:46 pm
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