Namaste and All That Crap

So now that I'm all middle aged crazy and obsessed with health and fitness, I had a few moments of panic this weekend wondering how I was going to fare with all the readily available chocolate and limited gym hours.

Saturday morning, I told Dallas that I wanted to participate in an 8:00am power yoga class and did he want to come.

"NO." Emphatic.

I pressed him.

"Why not? You said you wanted to work at becoming more flexible. This is the perfect opportunity."

"No." Emphatic, calm and accompanied by shaking head and matter-of-fact countenance.

When I opened my mouth to protest further, he said, "There is no way in hell that I am going to try to twist my body in front of a group of people. You don't understand. I am as stiff as a four by two. I'm not doing it."

And that was that. He got on the treadmill and I walked into the studio. Let me just say right now that Dallas was the smart one.

The class was called "Power Yoga" which, had I truly pondered things for one second, should have been a giant red flag. At the time, I kind of thought that power and yoga in the same headline was really just an oxymoron or a way to assuage the insecurities of the instructor who probably wished she was teaching something more challenging like Body Pump. Really, how bloody powerful could yoga be? Oooohhhh, I really stretched that one......right?

So, so wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.

The teacher arrived and like most who practice yoga, she had a body that can only be described as supple. She was as graceful as a ballerina and she emanated good will. I was so excited to be trying something new. That joy lasted exactly six minutes.

I was a warrior 1, warrior 2, warrior 3, and an upward warrior and let me tell you: I have no interest in being any kind of warrior again. Ever.

I was a chair, a downward facing dog, a bridge, a triangle, a pigeon, a plough, a half revolved belly and a freaking king dancer. There were plank poses and push ups and lunges called something pretty and deceiving instead of just telling us outright that we would be in hell for the next five minutes. For an hour and a half, I struggled through pose after pose. Sweat poured off me and I swear I could smell the Ouzo I'd consumed a week before.

At the end, the instructor went around the class and placed lavender scented cloths on our faces as we lay on our backs recovering. Every muscle in my body quivered unpleasantly. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it was WORSE THAN CHILDBIRTH.

So, I'll be back again next Saturday because I'll be damned if I admit to people that a YOGA class kicked my ass.