My mum and I attended a Yoga class the other day in our latest quest to become super skinny, temple bodied goddesses. We have tried many things; from eating only mushrooms for days on end to doing celebratory endorsed work out DVD’s in the conservatory and wrapping our arms in clingfilm in an attempt to achieve Jennifer Aniston elbows.
I follow a few gorgeous model types on Instagram and Yoga seems to be their prefered method of exercise. I sit and scroll through pictures of them wearing head to toe skin tight outfits whilst performing some impressive knee to nostril stretches and envy their scultped bottoms and zen like expressions. I decided I needed to find my inner peace and so got on social media to find out which local methodist hall offered the best classes.
Having completely emptied our bank accounts at Sweaty Betty on ludicrously overpriced lycra, mum and I sauntered into class wanting to look like long-time Yoga fans who just needed to top up their skills. Then in walked the teacher…
I can assure you that both my mum and I are verified heterosexuals but we immediately developed a girl crush on our instructor Klara. With glossy dark curls, perfect finger nails and a toned physique to rival Gwyneth Paltrow she’s like a ray of sunshine bouncing off a pavement. We had found the woman who will lead us to Namaste (I’m not even sure that’s the correct context for that Yoga word).
Once down on the matt and getting our Yoga on I was amazed at how easily I could follow Klara’s instruction without having to stare at her constantly. I was getting really into it and stretching my bottom into the ‘Downward Dog’ pose when I suddenly became extremely aware of how close the lady behind me’s face was to my bum. How tragic would it be to accidentally plant an explosive fart up her nose. What would Klara think? I decided if that were to happen I’d simply abandon my matt and make a beeline for the exit leaving my mum to apologise in my wake. I was fortunate and managed to control any possible flatulance during class.
Another thing that amazed me was the lady to my right who said she was 75 was able to lift her leg much higher than mine during one particularly challenging pose. Being the competitive person I am I tried to equal her height but felt like I was going to rupture something in the tuppence region. I made a mental note to dedicate myself to this art of body dicipline so I can be a supple 70-year old.
Throughout the hours lesson I tried not to look directly at my mum as I knew it would result in a complete break down in hysterics. We are lucky enough to share a close relationship where one look in a certain situation can render the other person useless in laughter. My mum is one of those charming eccentrics and thinks she was definitely a Buddist monk in a previous life and so should have been a natural at Yoga from the off. I could tell without even looking that she was pissed off she couldn’t fold herself in half on the first lesson
I was surprised at what hard work Yoga actually is, as a runner I like to get my heart rate going to feel like I’ve really pushed myself but this Yoga made me aware of muscles I didn’t know existed. By the end of the class I was covered in sweat and felt like I’d really exerted myself.
After that single class my mum and I left with a buzzing feeling of achievement. We weren’t the bendiest people in that room and I’m pretty sure we failed to pull off text book examples of some poses but we were hooked. We can’t wait for round two to feel that satisfying burn and we even went to a posh local cafe for something called an ‘Infusion’ which may sound like a medical procedure but was basically a cup of tea with herbs floating around in it…
We have started our journey to enlightenment.
My Yogi name is River Moonbeam.