Downward Dog

When it comes to the gym, I am a personal trainer's dream. Give my a list of exercises and I will follow your instructions unquestioningly and without regard for personal limits. It's rare that I get bored with my workout routine (run for an hour) but this January, my fitness goals had me yearning for something new. In the spirit of branching out I enrolled myself in a month long membership at a hot yoga studio.

Yoga has always been a special interest of mine, for many reasons. Obviously, the outfits constitute the main appeal, because yogis are always stylishly dressed in choco sandals and climbing pants. The food comes next, yogis are usually drinking coconut milk or eating kashi. They just LOOK so healthy. When someone with a yoga mat is walking down the street the crowd seems to part: God bless your sun salute.

As you can see, the actual yoga practice is pretty far down on the list of things that make yoga appealing but blinded by the opportunity to awaken my spirit and buy new clothes, I didn't see the truth until it was much too late.

On my first day of class I rode the train, yoga mat in hand, watching the people schooch over on the crowded bench to make room for me and my transcendent soul. How cool did I look wearing Ugg boots and organic fabrics on the NRQ train? After my roommate asked me about the class. I had no response but I was quick to show her my new mat and hydrating watermelon drink.

Here is how the class goes: the beginners and people who are extremely athletic and talented though not familiar with the yoga routine (me) sit in the back. The people who are familiar with the routine and somewhat okay at yoga sit in the middle and the people who are super cool and have multiple yoga outfits and can do "standing-head-to-knee" sit in the front. Since I am singularly talented and predisposed to yoga and I have all the equipment I knew not to worry: by the end of the month I would be there too.

The month continued and I went to yoga every day after work. I drank a lot of coconut milk and followed the poses as closely as I could. Sometimes the instructor's eyes would meet mine during a particularly difficult pose and I would receive the silent communication: you are doing an amazing job. I am sorry you are stuck in the back with the rest of the losers. You are so talented and soon you will be up here with me.

The last day of class snuck up on me and I was excited to measure my progress from my first day. We began with the normal breathing exercises which I love because they are easy and you don't really have to do anything but they look cool. I was really finding my inner balance and flow by the fifth or sixth move when I chanced a look around. I looked at the champions in the front. I looked at the fat fifty year old woman next to me. My pose looked a lot more like the fat lady's than the limber asian girl at the front of the room. Next pose, same thing. Things continued in this manor until the end of the class and by the time we got to final breathing (my second favorite thing, right behind opening breathing) my alternate yoga reality had come crashing down around me. I was resolutely pushing all the bad, impure air from my stomach when I had to admit the truth: I am not very good at yoga.

I am back to my regular gym routine, and besides being able to touch my toes for the first time in my life, my yoga moves have had little effect on me. It's nothing personal, I looked great in the clothes and had no complaints about the food. Admitting that I am bad at yoga is one thing. But the ramifications it has on my life are immeasurable. What else am I bad at? Design (probably), running (definitely), dancing (goes without saying). The thing is, being honest with yourself is painful. So, in the spirit of keeping moral up and dance injuries to a minimum, I will no longer be attending yoga. If you asked me I'd say it was because of the smell. I'd tell you I was incredible and practically teaching the class when I stopped attending. But the fact of the matter is I just plain suck.