Due to the immense popularity of yoga I hadn’t tried it till recently. Of course, if anything is popular we, as in me or in this case I, think it comes with a lame label. But you know, perhaps I’ll somehow become best friends forever with my body. So I found a yoga mat sitting around the house and took it as a sign to take tap dancing lessons. Of course not. There is something a lot less daunting about exercising within the confines of your own home habitat than in a public exercise zoo. In fact, the vision of attending a yoga studio propels images of myself as one of those inflatable tube men that flail around at car yards and remote B grade businesses. (AKA Mr Blowie) You know, I’d rather not hit anyone in the chops with my uncontrollable spaghetti limbs. Also I have the balance of an intoxicated sloth on high heel roller skates.
After downloading one of the many yoga apps I stretched my way through the routine of poses. In keeping up with the virtual lady instructor I seemed to lose track of my breathing, hence drooling on the yoga mat below. My ‘Downward-facing-dog’ rather took the form of a defeated canine with rabies, ‘Downward-frothing-dog’. Of course the following day I reaped the outstanding benefits of not being able to move my arms, stomach and nostril hairs. Work it, Tin Man.
I persisted with day 2, managing all maneuvers mentioned, until my yoga mat was hijacked. Cat pose had manifested itself at my feet. At least I wasn’t in Cobra position.
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