Yoga

 

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Yoga is is not for wimps.  I have been congratulating myself on being comfortable in my Pilates class.  I go to a class in a nice yuppie neighbourhood.  Lots of young women, some of them dancers attend.  And I keep up. . . . mostly.  When I don’t I blame it on my artificial hip, my 67 years are a good excuse too.  I can do roll-ups, balance on a huge ball and squeeze. . . oh, never mind.  I’m good in that class.  Only problem is, it’s a little bit pricey, so I thought I’d look around my neighbourhood and see what else was out there.  Turns out the local Y had a special for oldies like me.  For three months I can go to any class I like and it only cost $64.  So, I signed up and went tonight to my first class.  It was yoga.  Oh boy, I knew I was in trouble when I noticed sweat dripping onto the rather ratty mat -I’ll be bringing my own next time.  There will be a next time because I know this is a good practice, but it is h.a.r.d.  That downward dog thing?  Who knew it led to a plank and then a cobra. . . Well. At least now I know what to expect.  Oh, and the others in the class?  Some are guys with hairy legs who have the whole process down pat.  Somehow I like it better in the class with the dancers where I can fantasize that if I keep at it long enough I might hold that enormous ball and roll it between my heels and my toes.  How Western of me!  I must delve into the philosophy of the East so I can be a tranquil human corkscrew.

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