I failed yoga.
I’m sure any yoga instructor would encourage me to keep at it, arguing that I am young in the process of developing my yoga self. But after many years of embarassment, I sincerely believe that my yoga self is akin to my rock star self. It all looks TOTALLY cool and I WISH that I could do it too. But seriously, my chances of becoming a true yogist are slightly less than my chances of becoming an opening act for Lady Gaga.
It’s not that I didn’t try.
I attended yoga at many locations, dedicating myself to each location, believing that each new location would be my yoga home. I tried every variation on yoga, from the gentle beginner yoga to the hardcore 100 degree room where you have to drink two gallons of water afterwards just to make it to your car.
But none of the locations seemed to alleviate that gnawing feeling of being a total flexibility loser.
It may be true that I would enjoy yoga in the dark….or, better yet, yoga alone. But seriously, when you can barely straighten your leg or reach whatever part of the body the instructor is urging you to reach, it’s tough to look at the person whose face is skin-to-skin with their pinky toe.
And in DC, it’s even worse. In DC, the yogists are dressed to the yoga nines. You won’t see anyone wearing their tenth grade sweats or their college boyfriend’s sweatshirt. No. In DC it’s all about the gear. The fashion yoga-show covers everything from those wearing the newest wicking fabrics to those who look intentionally and competitively granola.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike the DC yoga crowd. I’m just totally jealous.
I want to wear a salmon-colored stretchy half shirt with peaceful sandals and look like I’ve eliminated every toxin from my body. I want to carry around a mat in a bag that makes me look like my last vacation was in India. I want a cool water bottle that folks notice. I want to touch my nose to my toes.
But that’s just not me. And after years of trying, I am prepared to admit that it’s not me.
I should have known it when I tried meditation – pre-yoga years – and couldn’t get my ankles anywhere near the top of my thighs.
No. I will never be that cool yoga person.
I accept it.
But if there’s any chance you think you can get my ankles to rest upon my thighs in this lifetime, feel free to send me an email with your rates. Because although I’m officially OKAY with my failures in the flexibility department, I am still unenlightened enough to think that way down deep I have enough of the Cirque du Soleil gene to recreate the Nadia Comenichi of my youth.