Yoga- My Version of ‘Twist and Shout’

My husband had given me a gift certificate for yoga classes for Mother’s Day, a year ago. I think it was his way of getting me out of the house and away from the Home Shopping Network.

Not having done yoga before, I signed up for a beginner ‘flow’ class at 8:15 A.M. on a Saturday; a significant achievement for me since usually I was still seeing the inside of my eyelids at that time of the morning.

Julie, our instructor, was as thin as a rubber band and equally stretchy. She introduced herself and asked about our yoga experience. If you counted the stretching and maneuvering I have done trying to find matching lids to Tupperware containers while hunched in a cabinet below the stove, I figured I was good.

Julie started the class by asking for requests. I had a fleeting thought about shouting out Brick House by the Commodores but stifled it when I realized they weren’t referring to music.

We started 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 started transitioning us to different positions with names like Warrior, Downward Dog and Cobra. I began to think they should have names like, say, those extreme rides at amusement parks; The Zipper, Terminator, The Rack and Death Stretch came to mind. At this point I was way beyond the ‘Hokey Pokey’ and had entered someone’s version of Twister® Hell. I no longer had any idea where my limbs were.

“Be in the present,” Julie told us, in one of those voices reserved for Mary Poppins and kindergarten teachers. I knew I was quite ‘present’ because I swear I heard my muscles screaming. Every now and then, Julie came over and helpfully repositioned me so that the muscle pain was even more exquisite.

The human pretzel working out next to me gave me one of those ‘you’re doing great’ looks; I wanted to reach over and pull her mat out from under her. Instead, I fleetingly considered the possibility of mastering these positions, thereby becoming the bedroom gymnast my husband has always wanted.

I was sweating profusely by then. Julie, in those dulcet tones of hers, cooed “Lean to the right and we’re massaging the liver.” I was thinking ‘Yeah, I’d like to massage my liver with a cold, frosty beer.’

During the next stretching sequence I became worried that my c-section scar was going to explode and my uterus would fall out. This thought occurred to me just before I lost my balance and fell over in a move I called the “Dying Crone.”

Then we were 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 was thinking this wasn’t so bad until Julie performed a couple of moves usually reserved for prepubescent Cirque du Soleil performers and ended up arching into a handstand.

“Find a position that’s comfortable for you,” purred Julie. I immediately curled into the fetal position as Julie started the rhythmic beating of the gong, entreating us to feel our “fingers and toes and the world around us.”

And then, the session was over. I was told to hydrate for the rest of the day, which I took to mean ‘massage my liver’ with an Advil-based margarita or three.

Yoga is not for everyone, but I understand it’s great for people my age. Besides, I’ve got several more sessions, and I fully intend to use them. Just as soon as I tape that gift certificate back together.