Summer vacation had been the motivation I needed to get back to the gym. It’s not swimsuit season that’s driving me though. It’s the health of my children after being home with me every day, all day, for three months. If we don’t get some kind of break from each other there’s going to be tears (from me) and blood (from them, ultimate cage fighting has nothing on those two).
But the gym offers me two hours of childcare a day. And since they are wifi and couch free and the hot tub is full of old men who will talk you to death while staring at your chest, I pretty much have no choice but to work out. My plan for today was to hit the 8am Zumba class but my children’s unheard of late waking time of 7:30 put the kibosh on that. So instead I decided to go to Hatha Yoga class.
Sure I hadn’t been to the gym in three months but I used to kick ass at yoga. Well as much as someone can kick ass at something that involves rising of your heart rate. Before I got pregnant I had been on a serious yoga and pilates kick. I wasn’t in headstand territory but my weirdly good balance meant I could hold a plank or tree position for an insanely long time. I would stand there smugly smiling at the gym hotties as they tumbled to the ground around me one by one.
There were no gym hotties today in my class. Just lots of older women and a movie hot yoga instructor. Seriously, he looked like he could have come to life from the pages of a chick lit novel. But that cute face hid a sadistic spirit and damn those fifty year old women were flexible. I was vibrating like the Golden Gate bridge before we got to the third pose yet everyone around me was smiling beatifically.
And I had forgotten that Hatha yoga has a holistic spiritual bent to it. Theoretically I like this aspect of it. As someone who is not religious I often think that meditation would be a good replacement for praying. Until the teacher tells us to tune into the universe as we hold a pose for the third minute. Then I think “hogwash! Fuck this! Give me some good old hymns and a glass of wine” (you may have perceived that I was raised Catholic).
As the women around me tuned their chakras, I teared up as the teacher corrected by pose for the fifth time. When he pulled on my ponytail to elongate my body I thought to myself that it might have a kinky thrill if I wasn’t in so much pain already. And he looked more like Vincent Cassel than James Marsden. Fortunately class soon drew to a close with a guided meditation (I fell asleep) and a piece of chocolate “infused with good thoughts”. I threw a bitter Namaste to the teacher on my way out the door and resolved to go to water aerobics tomorrow. The average age in that class is at least 70 so it’s got to be more my speed. Surely.