By Jenny Aitken
No. I don’t do yoga. Yes. I am aware that it is good for you, and wow it can even be done in warm temperatures, how neat, but I am also aware that I will spend the entire time in fear of farting and trying not to laugh at the symphony of mouth breathers. That’s deep breathing, you say; it’s good for you. So are brussel sprouts, but you don’t see me trying to shove them down your throat. My friends do yoga, and I swear for every minute they spend in warrior pose, they spend five minutes bragging about it to me after. My whole body just feels so loose right now. I don’t really know what that feels like, but it seems slightly terrifying.
As for the “yoga clothes,” it would be nice to be able to walk into a store like Lululemon without the peppy preaching of a sales employee, or random enlightened yogi, on the benefits of ooommmming and aaahhhing. All I want is a tank top that doesn’t require me to wear a bra, and a pair of those spandex pants that actually make me look like I have a butt. Instead, I am besieged with upbeat life lessons on the importance of stretching. I am reminded to take a few minutes out of my day to breathe. Pretty sure I do that all day, every day. It’s called being alive.
But yoga is s relaxing, it soothes the mind.
Personally, I don’t find it soothing watching people bend their spandex-clad bodies into contortionist pretzels while I struggle to even touch my toes. The only soothing part comes at the very end, when they just let you lie there and the instructor uses that wispy voice and says things like, “Feel your body sink, sink, sink into your mat.” But, why should I suffer through 50 minutes of discomfort and boredom to get there? It’s called lying on my bed. Done.
Jenny Aitken is third-year writing student at UVIC