As I write this, my shoulders are aching, a tiny muscle in my back is going into its tenth spasm of the hour and I’m sitting up straighter than I ever have in my life.
Normally I attribute minor aches and pains to one of my long runs (especially the time that I wiped out and fell face down in the middle of the street on 35th and N); a tiring spinning class; or even to that day we all dread: laundry day (don’t laugh?I live in Village B where on a good day I have to hike a mile through the courtyard and up and down two flights of stairs just to reach the laundry room with my 15 pounds of laundry). This time, however, these aches and pains are hardly minor, and I’m positive they’re not my usual calf soreness from running or lower back ache from spinning and laundry. In fact, (laugh), I’m completely sore from yoga class.
I don’t know what you picture when you think of yoga, but until last Tuesday I thought of nice little Asian yogis chilling on a lush green mountain chanting “ohm” while twisted into some ridiculous pretzel position that no one in their right mind could ever duplicate.
Consequently, I decided yoga would be a cool class to take to improve my flexibility (yes, I’m that girl who had trouble passing the national fitness test?not because I couldn’t run a mile or do 50 sit-ups, but because I couldn’t touch my toes). And, who knows, maybe I’d reach some higher plane of thinking (you never know). So, I signed up figuring, if nothing else, I would at least be able to take a nap for an hour twice a week. Who was I kidding?
The first day of yoga class was an experience to remember. After walking into the darkened exercise room at Yates, I had to suppress my laughter at the sight of fifty or so Georgetown students lying face down on smelly blue mats attempting what the instructor was calling the “downward dog.” Before I could turn around, bolt from the room and head straight for the highly coveted non-occupied elliptical machine I had spotted downstairs in Yates, the instructor (who I swear seemed to be emitting mysterious magical rays) caught my eye and motioned to an empty spot on the mat. Searching for the nearest exit in case I got up the nerve to book it out of the room, I took my spot on the mat and molded myself into my own interpretation of the downward dog.
After what seemed like five excruciating minutes in the downward dog (I later found out that it’s considered the “resting” pose), we moved into over an hour of constant movement from position to position. Let me tell you, my sit bones (i.e. butt) can reach only so far to the sky. Aside from the relaxing music playing in the background, the class was about as calm and peaceful as the student section at the Georgetown/Notre Dame game on Saturday when Troy Murphy fouled out. In fact, if anyone had walked into the room during that hour, we might have looked like a bunch of grunting circus animals, with me acting as the head elephant that could barely walk straight. The instructor even cracked a smile and occasionally burst out laughing at our “interpretations” of the poses. I think she really liked my “chair” pose, especially when my chair collapsed (read: I lost my balance and fell flat on my butt).
When it came time for the last 15 minutes of abdominal and mat work, I breathed I sigh of relief thinking I was home free. Yeah right. I could barely even enjoy the final restorative pose, the “corpse” position, because my back was spasming so badly from the partial bridge we had attempted seconds before. The instructor just laughed at me as I writhed on the floor while the rest of the class relaxed and “got in touch” with their fingers and toes.
Needless to say, I have not missed a yoga class yet. Slowly, but surely our class has been increasing its flexibility, improving our downward dogs and “getting in touch” with our breathing. Now when I crawl into bed at night and fall asleep to the sound of the elephants running around above us (you think I’m kidding), I laugh at myself as I think how much more sore I am from yoga class than I ever was after running a 10K.
