Having been a sceptic of most things 'woo-woo' as I term
them, until proven otherwise, I have always pigeon-holed yoga into the same sad
genre as veganism, tattoos and blond braids. One could perhaps add to the list;
the likes of bitter herbal flu drops from health shops, having one's own
chickens on one's small holding in Noordhoek to control snails but not for
eating, and the very same tiny white pills homoeopaths prescribe for popping
under one's tongue to remedy every ill. Only
just last week our vet gave me the very same little white pills for our West
Highland Terrier’s eczema! So you see
what I mean? However on the yoga front, and only yoga from the list above (I
must insist), I have been forced to eat some humble pie of late. I'm not sure
where 'humble pie' fits into the Banting diet if at all, but I have to admit I
haven’t really been following that for some time. I just enjoy pasta far too
much to be menu swapping partners with Prof. Tim Noakes, as nice and convincing
a bloke as he is.
There’s no doubt that yoga lacks the ability to substitute the
aerobic exercise I'm used to, but I have come to realize the fact that there is
something rather satisfyingly exhilarating and logically soothing about this
weird slow motion practice of many prayer inspired poses. Thanks to the nagging
encouragement of one of my fittest swimming mates, the kind who swim to and
from Robben Island in 6°C water, and her tirelessly
supportive husband, I have just completed my first week of 'Hot Yoga'. Despite only having been exposed to the
apparent entry level bikram yoga, whereas I understand that yo bikram,
ashtanga and vinyasa flow yoga await my curiosity, I have started to realise
that toning and stretching without the jarring from impact will not only raise
one's heart rate significantly, but make one feel extraordinarily good about
oneself. I have been well advised that I remain on the basic level class
until I can satisfactorily wrap my arms and legs into reef knots, legs and arms
outstretched fore and aft, whilst remaining calm and perfectly upright on a
pointed rock beside the ocean’s lapping waves.
I now accept that advice most gladly.
Ok, so there is the added motivation that being one of the
only males in the room does have its advantages. Being new to it all, one is
often forced to examine one's posture by inspecting the superbly firm, curvy buttocks
bent over or legs spread-eagled in front of one, or to the left or right. As
perverted or invasive as that may sound to some, there really is no time
to dilly-dally as serious concentration is required at 40℃ and balance and correct posture are
key, but the vision isn't something to be scoffed at that's for sure.
The 'woo-woo' lingo in hushed chalky tones I do however find
somewhat superfluous, as I have no idea what on earth the instructor is
referring to most of the time anyway. Why plain English isn't an option I have
no idea? Hence the need for regular, well meaning ‘butt glances', for me
at least, in order to be guided into correctly striking my next pose. To
support my point, on completion of my first hour-long session, the instructress
recommended we lie back on our mats “to absorb the energy – woo-woo” or some
such; heels together, arms by our sides, palms up and eyes closed. As she left
the room, she quietly said what I thought was 'you-mus-stay', which everyone else repeated for some bizarre
reason. So I stayed, deciding not to
look around for any reaffirmation, so as to appear a little less distracted.
Only when the cleaning lady, armed with a bucket and mop, entered into the room
some 20 minutes later did I wake up, and seeing no-one else about came to the
conclusion that I may have misunderstood the jargon, just a little. Yet after a
quiet, embarrassed chuckle to myself as I sheepishly collected my mat and
towels, I tried slipping out of the room without being noticed, only to be met
with calm, loving greetings by the smiling staff sitting in the reception
lounge. Despite feeling a touch
embarrassed, I left feeling rather good about it all and even glowing somewhat.
Having now signed up for longer-term membership,
I’ve now become rather confident about it all, and with a break in meetings,
popped through to today’s 13h00 yoga class, mistakenly thinking it was
Wednesday, as opposed to Thursday. Clearly
the ‘woo-woo’ is affecting my judgment. As a result I ended up in entirely the
wrong class only realising it once it had begun. The Super-Advanced ‘Ashtanga’ Class as
it happens, where one is expected to tie oneself up into ever demolishing
circles and make extraordinary movements (and noises) until one finally pops
one’s head up one’s own fundamental orifice, levitating above the mat whilst
quietly whimpering ‘Oooh, but it’s dark up here!’.. A
mistake I'm not likely to repeat in a hurry, although I was rather proud at
having been able to do most of the poses, bar the above, which in itself isn't that distressing. Despite her valiant
efforts, I did manage to make my rather serious instructress giggle quietly to
herself on a few occasions as she tried hard not to kill herself laughing. But I shall be back, with vigour, only to the
correct class next time.
So, I'm a new convert to Hot Yoga, that’s true, however if you
catch me starting to think about lentils, brussel sprouts, tofu and mineral
water for lunch afterwards, please put me down.
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