Is Yoga for knobs?

 

Is Yoga for Knobs?

 

As part of my New Years resolution, I promised myself that I would Relax more.

Those who know me personally could feasibly describe me as being somewhat ‘highly strung’.

I also made a vow to do more exercise. I can’t figure out if this is a contradiction or not?

Some ‘gym’ people swear that exercise actually helps them to relax. Other even stranger people say exercise actually IS relaxing.

But then it occurred to me.. ‘A ha…..I’ll do yoga!’. None of the sweaty, red faced, out of breath, painful stuff. Just me being graceful and dignified, whilst sporting some of the expensive exercise clothing I brought myself when I intended to start running (snort).

After all, we’ve all seen the super hot A listers who claim that the secret to their perfect bodies is yoga. (I have a sneaky suspicion they also forego food and do a LOT of cardio, but I have chosen to ignore this part).

I actually used to do quite a bit of it a few years ago – but I never actually joined a class. Just used the occasional dvd or made it up i.e 'did some stretches'.

So, in order to try and take it more seriously I decided to attend a class. One with a proper instructor, where the session lasts longer than my usual 8 minutes (including ‘warm up’ and ‘cool down’).

Unfortunately it didn’t pan out quite as I had hoped. I could talk about the ‘experience’ all day, but I know you don’t have that long so I’ve gone with bullet points instead:

-          There was a slightly chunky instructor – not great advertising I thought. A bit like a shampoo advertised by Sinead O Connor. Said her name was Debs. She had very big teeth, and a slightly dazed expression. Cannabis I wondered? Maybe I should become a yoga instructor and become a chilled out kind of girl? Then again, probably not.

 

-          The other women (and one man) in the class all looked rich. They brought their own snazzy mats as if to say ‘look at me, I am so bloody Zen it hurts’. Never mind that the mats were probably made by an overworked, under paid,  5 year old in kazikstan. Not to mention their overpriced yoga clothes that seemed distinctly at odds with the actual history of yoga.

As far as I’m aware the Indian founders didn’t wear Nike or sweaty Betty in order to improve their technique.

 

-          The teacher announced she was ‘doing something different’ in todays class, and decided to partner us up – 'oh for fu&*s sake'. I looked around desperately as the women all paired up with friends. It was just like being at school. I ended up with the (only) man called Jed, who was apparently suffering from a knee injury. Which rather begged the question, why was he here? The instructor made us sit back to back and align ourselves with each others spines. 

 ‘Acknowledge the possible discomfort of being in such close contact with another body’ She said breathily. ‘Then blow it out’.

I was seriously contemplating getting up and leaving, but have never really been one to create a scene.

 

-          ‘Now, focus on your everyday breath’ the instructor continued.

Every day breath? Was there any other kind?

 

When would someone ever say ‘’That’s lovely breathing you’re doing there Sian''….

’’Oh this old thing…this is just my every day breath. I do it all the time, wait until you hear the special stuff’’.

I giggled to myself and then immediately stopped as Debs caught my eye.

-          So I continued on, both breathing, and wishing I were somewhere else entirely. Was this really going to make me body beautiful? O

ver the course of the next hour, we were made to get into various positions, including one where Jed had do the ‘child pose’ which essentially involved curling up in a ball in the floor. Then horror of horrors, the instructor made the partners (i.e me) sit on them and stretch back so that We were lying back to front over the top of them. Enough was enough, I stood frozen with fear. My husband doesn't get this level of intimacy. Why would I give it to dodgy knees Jed?

‘Are you okay?’ the instructor asked.

‘I don’t want to squash him’ I admitted (as the rich bit&^es sniggered).

‘You won’t. Our bodies our designed to balance in perfect harmony’

I thought I heard Jed mutter something about ‘bloody hoping so’, but it was difficult to tell as his face was squashed into his knees.

Oh well, I thought. His knee is injured anyway, what’s a further sprain. I slowly sat down on him and tried to ensure that I kept some of my weight on my feet until the last minute, then slowly but entirely ungracefully, I flopped back.

‘Ouch’ exhaled Jeff.

‘Sorry’ I said, as my face turned crimson.

‘That’s great’ said the instructor. ‘Now take your time to relax, and feel your partners breath. Try and get it in unison with your own’

I concentrated hard, but was unable to detect even a murmur of breath from Jed. Had I killed him?

After an agonising 2 minutes for both of us, we were allowed to stand up and do some final stretching before the class finished. I avoided eye contact with Jed, but confirmed he was still alive, albeit wincing slightly.

-          The class finished with everyone sitting cross legged and roaring like lions. I assumed when the instructor asked us to do it, that most people wouldn’t, or if they did, it would be quietly. I was wrong. They went for it with major enthusiasm.

‘Roooaaaaaarrrrr’’ said the lady next to me.

'Grrrr.....Roooooaaaaarggghhh’ shouted Jed. (I swear this was followed by a fart).

I felt about as comfortable as watching my grandparents snogging, and they are both dead.

The class finally finished and I breathed a massive sigh of relief (using my 'special' breath).

I observed my body in the large mirror. Definitely a tiny bit thinner, and I was stood up taller, but was it worth it?

Was I more relaxed?

No.

In fact, it had been one of the most stressful events of my life.

However, not one to give up, I’m going to try Pilates next.

I’ll let you know how I get on. Fingers crossed I don't see Jed there on crutches.

Yesterday I went swimming.

 

Don’t worry readers, I’m not going to offer you tips on front crawl, or review the latest in swimming caps. No, It wasn’t the swimming itself that sparked my need for discussion. Instead it was what happened upon exiting the pool.

 

I was feeling nicely proud of myself after completing 30 lengths. In fact, I felt positively athletic and convinced that the remaining Christmas chub had dissolved into the water over the last 25 minutes. Off I sprang to the changing rooms wrapped in my warm towel, excited by the prospect of a reward in the café. However, when I had thought the exercise was the hard bit, it transpired I was wrong. It was actually the ordeal of getting changed afterwards that was more of a challenge.

It’s not that I’m mentally challenged in respect of putting on trousers or anything. I can of course dress myself. Hell, I can dress myself AND my screaming toddler in 5 minutes flat should the occasion so call for it. In fact, I’m a god damn Goddess of getting dressed, even if I do say so myself. So you see, it wasn’t me that was the problem. It was the presence of other people that made things difficult.

Now I’m not what you’d call a massive prude, however I guess you could say I am …. ‘reserved’ in the nudity department. For example, I wouldn’t relish the prospect of a nudist holiday, and all the flapping and wobbling that would inevitably come along with it. However, if I have to whip my top off say, in order to change in the car I wouldn't hyperventilate. I would of thought that there was a fairly British attitude, but it would appear I was wrong.

Wandering into the changing rooms I briefly thought I had stumbled upon a strange naked competition or something. Now I know what your thinking….it’s the CHANGING ROOMS. Of course there are naked women, and this I have no problem with. But shouldn’t there be a sort of time limit on this? A kind of ‘whip it off, whip it on’ scenario. So Why oh why, do some women use female changing rooms as some sort of parade? Smugly they smile as they meander around casually in JUST THEIR BRA. Seriously, who even puts their bra on before their pants? Isn’t it sort of against the law?

 

Or worse still, those who have their bra on, but leave it under their boobs like a bizarre rib belt. As if to actually put it on would be somehow cowardly. ‘COVER UP YOUR TITS’ I thought silently, as I hurried to my locker. Just then, a middle aged ‘voluptuous’ woman sauntered towards me and brazenly dropped her towel by my feet, before proceeding to apply moisturiser to every part of her generously sized body. I wouldn’t have looked, but towards the end she bent over and banged into me, almost knocking me over with her bare arse. Honestly, it's not what you expect on a Monday evening.

 It turned out there was no safe place to look in the entire changing room – even drying my hair in front of the mirror would have left me wide open to accidental eye – boob contact, with any one of the exhibitionists. Where had they all come from? I wondered. A Gok Wan seminar on body confidence? France? It was all very bizarre.

So I took a deep breath and decided to make a decision. If you can’t beat them, join them I thought. I could just whip off my towel and do a little dance. Maybe a lunge or 2? After all, who cares? They will all assume I’m body confident like them and think nothing of it. Perhaps I’ll get a high five, or an invite to their next muff display in a church hall somewhere?

But, despite my best ‘what the hell’ intentions, I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t grow up in a naked house (perhaps I should get therapy for this Freudian issue?), and I’m no Jennifer Aniston in my pants. So instead I had to do the super awkward thing of trying to dress under a towel without falling over or dropping it. No doubt they were all busy judging the ‘poor body conscious’ woman, as I hopped around with one leg in my pants. 'BIG issues' they were probably thinking, shaking their heads sadly and giving each other knowing looks.

In fairness, I probably drew more attention to myself by doing this than I would of done if I had just gotten on with it starkers. But Hey – at least I could sit in the café afterwards, and enjoy my cappuccino without risking sitting next to someone who had just seen my bare bum 2 minutes prior.

 

Maybe one day I’ll get brave enough to stop caring? When my arse and tits are finally officially on the floor (only a matter of time) and my days of being body conscious are a thing of the past. I'll wake up and realise that I should see my body for the machine that it is, and feel no shame. One day I may indeed relish the feel of the breeze on my bingo wings....

 But until that day, I’ll keep the naked times at home.

Anyone fancy a work out?? (No. Me neither)

I know it's the 4th January, but I still can't seem to decide when to start my new year...

 

By start my new year, I do of course mean stop living like a sloth. Throw out the leftover chocolates, mince pies and turkey (I know I know I'm an appalling example of womanhood with a filthy fridge and low standards. In fact, it's probably flown off by itself by now)

 

As I am typing I am cramming entire chocolate oranges in my mouth. as if in hope that once they are all gone I really can 'start afresh' and get that bikini body by the time I go on holiday in May (for the record I haven't had the bikini body I've been after since I was 14). I think I'll start 'officially' on Monday, which gives me 2 days to finish the food without guilt or shame.

 

That's right people, from Monday EVERYTHING is going to be different. Not only am I cutting out sugar, white carbs, alcohol, and limiting my caffeine intake (not difficult), but I am going to start working out again! In fact, I've just opened up my gym drawer and LOOKED at the spandex outfits which is only one step away from putting them on, and two steps away from actually wearing them whilst exercising. As it stands I don't really fancy wearing them in public at the moment so instead, I'm going to do what all self respecting (deluded) women do in January and use a fitness dvd in the comfort of my own home. I will perform said work out at LEAST 4 times a week, and keep this up for the whole year. (snort).

 

My plan is virtually fool proof and I can already feel my abs tightening (nb I don't actually have any abs / anything resembling stomach muscles but you can't see me so just imagine if you will). There is only one teeny tiny flaw I'm aware of....I have a bit of an issue with workout dvds and am struggling through the list on amazon to no avail. They seem to fall into 3 general categories.

 

- 10 minute ones. These of course sound massively appealing, but really....10 minutes? I can't imagine that's going to do the trick at all. I'm not trying to add definition I'm trying to half the size of my arse.

- Hi Tech ones. With dwindling fitness levels, and the attention span one might expect from a mother of a small child, I'm not sure these are for me at all. I am naturally a quitter (I know I should stop bigging myself up) and don't want to set myself up for a fall, either literally or metaphorically speaking.

- Celeb ones. The notion of celebrity fitness dvds actually wants to make me be a bit sick. It's such a contrived ghastly market, that I really don't want to pay into......

 

It always starts in the same way, some non entity of a ‘celebrity’ is pictured at an obscenely unflattering angle, looking like a sausage, and wearing a string bikini / crop top / lycra etc. They are almost always running or bending over, which is what arises the suspicion. I mean, what right minded woman who has a few surplus stones on her would be seen:

 

a) wearing something so unforgiving, and

b) doing  actual exercise OUTSIDE where people can SEE you…..

 

Said picture always appears in papers and magazines, presumably sold / set up by some immoral talent agent. Celebrity is ‘mortified’. 3 months later they are on the cover of the same magazine in the same outfit, looking like an orange lollipop and grinning like a fu^&!!"g hyena. ‘LOOK AT ME NOW’ screams the headline, if I can do it you can do it too’. The interview with celeb reads the same who ever they are ‘I am so much happier, and I have so much energy . . especially in the bedroom (chortle) wink wink nudge nudge’. The article is accompanied by a diet plan which includes food (unlikely) and pictures of them doing  various squats and leg lifts, all accompanied by the promise that this could be YOU, if only you could put down the biscuits and stop being a lazy wench.

Then, 6 months later the celeb is back AGAIN, usually 2 stone heavier than they were in the original fat pics. The headline screams ‘This is who I am and I am even happier now’. Celeb admits they were starving themselves to be so thin (no sh%t Sherlock) and were fainting 10 times a day on the treadmill, until one day their agent got really worried about them (i.e this thin thing had stopped bringing in moolah) and they needed to take better care of themselves (i.e visit multiple burger vans).

 

So....all things considered, I think I'm going to go for a Davina one. Yes, technically she's a celebrity, but not a moronic one. Plus she has the kind of body that I would LOVE but doesn't look totally unrealistic.

 

I'll let you know how I get on. Wish me luck.