Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I have started yoga. Thanks to CorePower's free week for all new students and Groupon's $49.99 unlimited month, I have lunged into the abyss armed with curiosity, hope, a saggy core and an achy back.
It has been just over one week. I have attended five C1 (beginner) classes. My initial blanket feeling thus far? LOVE. Sure, it may be unrequited love, for now, but love it is.
I enjoy walking into the studio where talking is not allowed. I'm an introvert and this is my mecca. Hopefully I'm at the back of the class so I can sweat and pose in peace but as in tonight's case, I'm not always as lucky. Tonight I was front and center for both the class and the reflection in the mirror. My apprehension towards my placement doesn't last long however. I find familiarity the minute we find extended child's pose and start our breathing. My mood enjoys the calming affect of the instructor's voice. The verbal cues and demonstrations and movement breakdowns help my analytical side. The liquid gestures make me feel graceful, dancer-like. The language used to label each movement brings out my intellectual side. I worship the belief in yoga that every strong pose is followed by a strong relaxation. When you feel like you could collapse, you literally get to. I adore the challenge of opening up my heart and chest, straitening my back, looking up with my arms extended and letting my head hang heavy. I was immensely proud of myself when I accomplished my first inverted pose, crow. I continue to get better with every class. I revel in the end of class. Not because my pain and suffering is over but because we get to lay there, in corpse pose, with the lights nearly out and the music subtle next to the silence and just relax. Nothing else matters at that point and I'm completely engulfed in the moment. With a personality like mine, it's wonderful to attain this feeling and for that at the very least, I am grateful.
Not everything is rainbows and roses however. As I implied, yoga doesn't necessarily love me yet. My cynical side still exists. The day after my first class, I could not feel the back of my arms much less lift them higher then my legs. Thanks to running, everything from my ass down was good to go. Everything from the waste up, however, was screaming, gesturing and swearing at me in every possible language. I feel immensely out of shape during class because I sweat. I'm not talking about a few beads percolating on my forehead. I'm talking full on, faucet running sweat. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Granted, the studio is slightly heated but still. I'm slowly working my way through my fear of passing gas on my neighbor. Laugh it up. Women know what I'm talking about when that bitch Flo is in town. I fear falling on my face at all times even though they tell us it won't happen. When I'm down in crow trying to rest my legs on my arms while looking forward, it takes complete concentration not to picture a gaping whole where my two front teeth used to be. The instructors always reiterate that shaking is good. Shaking is great. Shaking means your body is working hard. Therefore mine must be trying out for the effin Olympics because my whole body trembles. I could go on but it doesn't really matter because all of these semi-cons don't put a dent in the pros so to yoga I go again and again and next time, I get to go with a friend.