Gentle Yoga: an Oxymoron

A new yoga studio opened upon the prairie for us plains dwellers who wish to contort into unsavory positions whilst listening to the coyotes’ toenails click upon the weeds-in-the-cracks sidewalks.
Wednesday’s program was duplicitously titled “Gentle Yoga.”
Silly me, I didn’t believe yogis to be liars. Especiallyl when they are so kind, so thoughtful, with such soothing, low timbred, magical voices declaring positively how wonderful I am.
I believed her, which was Stage 1 in her nefarious plan.
We started with meditation so soothing I nearly fell over out of my cross-legged position, and that would have been especially embarrassing since I might have domino-ed about eight ladies.
After rousing from the 15 minute muscle-relaxer, emotion-numbing, self-esteem-building small talk with myself, we stood up, which normally is not an issue. Seems I was deeper into the trance than I realized, and tipping women from standing? That might have caused injury only 911 could have healed.
So we stood and we twisted a little; pivoted on a toe or two; bent and flexed.
It was nice, but not worthy of discussion. Nothing hurt, nothing popped out of whack; I was just relaxed. No biggie.
Then we laid upon our mats — which made me realize a little Febreze was in my future — and, on our backs, we were instructed to shut our eyes and begin envisioning.
Okay, we were too envision our bellies, pulling toward our spines, forming a well that fills from a gently flowing waterfall upon our concave flesh wells.
I only realized I was glad I’d visited the restroom a half hour before, and that water can’t fill a bowl that’s turned upside down. Water flows down the sides of convex objects, such as my gut.
That hurt my feelers.
Once upon a time, I could eat junk food, bloat like a gallon of rancid milk, and wake the next morning unscathed.
Now, with years tacked onto the ever-less-resiliency of my burgeoning figure? Not so much pooling as melting outward, like an amoeba. Bits of me try to run off, phalanges of skin pooching out, trying to bridge a gap between myself and Anything to get away from their original owner.
So I was envisioning water, “pooling,” but not in my belly cauldron but instead on the floor around me, and also violently wishing for another bathroom stop, just to “be sure” rivulets didn’t form into tributaries, if you know what I mean.
Plus … PLUS! ….the yogi insisted we students not twist ourselves into pain.
“Stretch! Take a hot shower, relax, drink water.”
Did I obey? Heck no! Did I tell you there’s a delightful Chinese restaurant just down the coyote-fur-covered sidewalk, four squares away? ‘Cause that’s where I went.
And then I went to bed.
No hot shower…no shower at all, actually, gross…and no draughts of water, no stretching of anything except the truth that I may not be the yogi I once thought.
Because the next morning? Well, I’ve been discouraged from using the word “pain,” so I’ll say my thigh muscles are still “vehemently tender.”
The next class is on Monday.
I may or may not go, mostly because the Chinese restaurant is closed on Mondays, so really, what’s the point of even going downtown?
Aging stinks.

 

D is for Deep Breaths, and the Occasional Down Dog

Goodness, there are so many “D” words pertaining to aging.
Most of them start the word “Don’t.”
Don’t look back, don’t forget your vitamins, don’t go for that second margarita.
Don’t regret.
Don’t rely on hip and knee structure so fully any longer; you’re sure to be Disappointed.
It’s enough to make me give up on this alphabetical reflection I’ve embarked upon.
But then I was peer-pressured into a little yoga — a new thing I do as an aging soul, because it’s so much kinder than step aerobics, plus my eyes are closed a lot, so I don’t have to see and resent the presence of others in cute outfits surrounding body parts in place where they should be. (You’ll get older; you’ll see what I mean.)
And I realized during my fourth session of yoga — heated yoga, no less, which is another story altogether, good heavens — that “Down Dog” starts with a D!
And “Deep Breath”, a life skill I thought I’d fully mastered, but guess what, nope. I was even admonished once with, “Don’t forget to breathe,” from the instructor as she made a gentle, rescuing grab at my arm while I was attempting a balancing move I thought I really nailed. (Also nope. But in my head, I was a freakin’ yogi.)
Shoot, now I deep breathe all over the place. Deep, deep breaths, in lines, in the car, in the car line. (Ugh. The car line. Sometimes that requires the deepest of breathing, am I right? It’s the sixth layer of hell.)
And breathing — who knew? — it kind of Delightful. It’s centering. A reboot of sorts. Plus, it eases that tension line between my eyebrows, the one I hate but loves me so much it’s trenched, ready to stick around for years.
Also, it’s preventative. Concentrating on breathing helps distract my imagination from shooting imaginary darts into the shopper in front of me, the purchaser paying for a full cart of items with the contents of a Ziploc loaded with coins of the smallest possible denomination. (That much copper in one locale should be guarded by bank employees.)
There are other D words —  drab, dowdy, dumpy, dimples, where one does not wish for dimples — that come with aging; internal words that take me down in a moment.
What do I do with such negativity? Breathe. Deeply. And do a down dog or two, because the blood rush leads to a re-focus on the good stuff:
Wait…I’ve put myself on the spot and I’m having trouble coming up with happy D words…
Hang on…it’s coming to me…
AHA!
Doting on my boy! (He’s maybe a little spoiled; I’m okay with that, maybe even Delighted! (Can’t stop me now!))
Driving! (Adults get to drive and we love it.)
(ignoring) the Dust laying around everywhere! Because I CAN! Because I’m an aDult!!
Plus, all this avoids the big “D” we age-rs fear:
Diapers.
Shudder.