Masochism and yoga
I am a closet masochist. (Some of you probably disagree about the closet part.)
I went to yoga for the third time (ever) on Sunday. I've now established a rhythm of going once every six weeks, which seems to maximize the "this is my first time"-ness of going and therefore maximizes both the physical discomfort of trying all the positions with muscles that are horrified at this turn of events as well as the self-consciousness of being, yes, the worst in the class at what we're doing.
The class I went to was meant to be for beginners and intermediates but I suspect I was the only beginner in the class, as it was significantly harder than the previous beginner/intermediate class I attended. (Or perhaps classes/teachers just vary enormously.) The teacher kept encouraging people to take breaks as they needed, in child-pose (there's at least four levels of meanings to that encouragement, no?), and I seemed to be the only one needing the breaks. Many parts of me were sore yesterday, and a new slew of parts of me are sore today.
I really think that the dreaminess of the teacher was the only thing that kept me going. Some people were born to have that many tattoos.
Later in the day, I posed the Barbara Walters question to mrhavisham: Do you suppose that all yoga teachers are bottoms?
What delight I took in watching him snarf his drink by way of giving an affirmative response. Perhaps I'm not just a masochist.
I went to yoga for the third time (ever) on Sunday. I've now established a rhythm of going once every six weeks, which seems to maximize the "this is my first time"-ness of going and therefore maximizes both the physical discomfort of trying all the positions with muscles that are horrified at this turn of events as well as the self-consciousness of being, yes, the worst in the class at what we're doing.
The class I went to was meant to be for beginners and intermediates but I suspect I was the only beginner in the class, as it was significantly harder than the previous beginner/intermediate class I attended. (Or perhaps classes/teachers just vary enormously.) The teacher kept encouraging people to take breaks as they needed, in child-pose (there's at least four levels of meanings to that encouragement, no?), and I seemed to be the only one needing the breaks. Many parts of me were sore yesterday, and a new slew of parts of me are sore today.
I really think that the dreaminess of the teacher was the only thing that kept me going. Some people were born to have that many tattoos.
Later in the day, I posed the Barbara Walters question to mrhavisham: Do you suppose that all yoga teachers are bottoms?
What delight I took in watching him snarf his drink by way of giving an affirmative response. Perhaps I'm not just a masochist.