Downward dog days of summer

It was a comment Sue made. One that I only half heard, but the tone indicated that I ought to take action. I think it was about flexibility, middle-aged bulge or maybe mindfulness.

Whatever the case, after a quick and superficial reflection, I enrolled in a yoga class.

As in most of life’s endeavours, the first step is to look the part. I remembered reading something about the seaweed woven into Lululemon outfits defying gravity and giving lift to that which had fallen long ago.

So, with black pants and matching elasticky T-shirt, I was decked out to fit in with the most earnest yoga enthusiasts. I arrived early at our local studio, barrelling into the yoga den. My noisy entrance startled the instructor who was rearranging a collection of wind chimes. Musical feng shui? I asked.

The instructor’s smile, however insincere, demonstrated that she forgave my disruption and I was invited to unroll my yoga mat. As I did so, I pointed out a knot in the laces of her Jesus-sandals. Strike two.

In short order I was part of a circle of eager midday yoga practitioners - more precisely, a dozen 75-year-old women, the instructor, and me.

Perhaps lured by the impact the Lululemon outfit had on my drooping physique, I could sense the attention I was attracting from my newfound septuagenarian yoga friends.

Subtle mat shuffling indicated that there was indeed some jockeying for position. I suspected that some of this jostling was due to the fact that for many of my fellow yoga students their husbands were peacefully and permanently sitting at home… on the mantel.

Soon, the instructor’s smile turned distinctly devilish as she looked right at me and demanded the downward dog. Now, my dog goes for a morning walk and then spends the rest of the day on a memory foam bed. So anything named in her honour should be pretty easy – and for my blue-haired yoga mates such was the case.

For those who are not familiar with said downward dog – try imaging your body in a sharp pyramid position, your buttocks as the peak and feet and hands as the base. My wrists, elbows and shoulders shuddered in pain while even my supposedly tightening seaweed outfit gave way to the inevitability of gravity.

My struggle provided a moment of pure bliss to the instructor, who, by this time, was resembling the Cheshire Cat.

Things went from bad to worse as we were then summoned to do something called the “Bound Lotus” pose. While the other participants happily assumed what I can only describe as unnatural positions, my grunts of frustration and beads of sweat confirmed that I was in over my head. Literally.

The ultimate humiliation was still to come, however, as this previously unknown position released pressure from some lower part of my abdomen.

Those same 75-year-old women who only moments earlier were gently tapping their mats in my direction were now suddenly getting up, picking up their paraphernalia and moving away from my lonely edge of the circle.

Since the pandemic, our yoga has shifted online. The benefits are the same and the risks are essentially eliminated. Our basement provides enough room that Sue and I bend and fold from a safe distance.

I am gaining flexibility and trying to remain mindful. Mindful not to break anything… anything at all.

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