Maybe I’m doing it wrong. I went to a yoga class yesterday for the first time in 3 years. Three years ago, it made me angry. Yesterday, it made me angry. I just don’t get it. I love stretching, I’m quite committed to breathing, and I’m pretty open to the whole getting-in-touch-with-yourself thing. Yet I find myself moving from child to cobra, and I feel inexplicably furious. The downward-facing dog puts me in the same state that I feel when someone who’s been driving at 80km/h in front of me on the open road speeds up to 105 for the passing lanes. And the horse rider’s pose? It’s like someone has just told me I will never taste hokey pokey ice cream again, or never again see a sunrise or walk in the dappled shade of the forest, or that all cat videos on youtube have been permanently deleted and no more can ever be uploaded. It drains all the joy out of the world and I am left with… yoga.
I don’t understand what it is that makes me so upset. There are some moves I can’t do as well as I’d like, but that’s never been enough to make me want to say “f*ck off and die” to a perfectly nice fitness instructor before. I’m aware of my body, I like finding inner balance, I enjoy deep breathing and I find pleasure in pushing myself physically and mentally. But I hate yoga. And I don’t hate a lot of things. Nor am I an angry person. Yoga brings this out in me and I really dislike it.
On a more positive note, I swam 500m yesterday, climbed Mt Maunganui twice last week, and LOVE the community at FitFatties. Ragen Chastain’s blog, DanceswithFat, along with her book, Fat: the owner’s manual has changed my outlook on life and I am infinitely more happy with myself and my body.
P.S. If you didn’t click on the ‘joy’ hyperlink up there, do it. One of the few acceptable uses of the ‘word’ lol.