Yoga: Exercise for the flat chested

So there I am, my right foot under my left armpit, leaning on my right elbow as I looked up at my left hand as it pointed at the ceiling and I thought, “Am I breathing correctly?”-- which was weird, because I never usually think about my breathing.

But then I realized that I never paid too much attention to anything when my body was contorted like a pretzel (in a room full of other people contorting their bodies like pretzels), except maybe how my brain occasionally screamed “OW OW OW.”

Welcome to Yoga: Week One.

The truth is Yoga has always been something that’s garnered my interest, in that car-crash-can’t-stop-gawking sort-of way. It amazed me that people would twist and bend their bodies into ridiculous positions and call it exercise. I’d watch the classes from my position across the gym, sweating away on my clunky exercise machine, and admire the posh, seemingly perspiration-free elegance of this floor exercise. It just looked so cool. I mean, Yoga came with outfits! And accoutrements, like floor mats and blocks and very attractive trainers. Who can resist the lure of very attractive trainers?

Frankly, I was all for any activity that created the illusion of exercise, especially if said exercise consisted almost entirely of laying on the floor and breathing deeply.

What finally got me to a class, though, was the high praise from my teenage daughter. She was taking a Yoga class at school and within one week of her new, daily regimen, Little Ms. Grumpy-Until-After- Her-After-School-Nap had transformed into Lovely Lady HappyPants. Seriously. She was GLOWING. And she, who until recently was voted “Least Likely to Ever Go Upstairs” by the rest of the household, had become a very vocal advocate of Yoga. Yoga the EXERCISE.

She even knew the names of the various contortions. Because, dear reader, each of those contortions actually has its very own special moniker designed to make the contortionist feel good about performing said exercise. To paraphrase: With a name like “Down Dog,” it’s got to be good.

Alas, I digress.

In my line of thinking, if the girl who hated exercise loved Yoga, what could I possibly lose by giving it a try? Besides my dignity, I mean?

Because my dignity went out the gym door within 10 minutes—right after the first time I fell over while trying to stand on one leg. Hence the floor mats. Or maybe it was when I bent over to touch my toes, and exposed the most plumber-esque part of myself? Hence why the rest of the room wore special Yoga clothes. And that gorgeous trainer? Yeah. Really gorgeous. And calm, And really, really limber.

All that aside… by the end of the lesson, when I was crumpled up on the floor (like I was supposed to be) and staring up at my hand, I was actually so focused on what my body was doing—the stretching, the breathing, the straining, the building-up-of-my-strength—that I realized I had been exercising the whole time. Which was weird. Because I enjoyed it.