Too British For Yoga

This weekend I found myself with an unexpectedly free Saturday. I cannot remember the last time this happened, and so instead of frantically calling in back-up, I decided to embrace some (*cringe*) me time, and spend the day selfishly and happily alone.

It started out innocently enough. I read the papers, inevitably fell back to sleep and embraced some menial household tasks. This brought me to about 11am. On a whim, I booked myself onto a two hour yoga class at my gym.

Now, it is fair to say I am an open minded person. I was up for a bit of chanting and incense, and I was even prepared to forgive the hemp, tye die and ironically narrow scarves that informed my fellow yoga goers sartorial choices... I will not forgive the two hours that followed.

We began with some chitchat about our earthly selves and our spiritual selves, and the importance of transcending our human form and human urges. We were told we must move beyond our thirst, our hunger and our sexual appetite. This was where yoga and I first began to part ways. I'm not sure I want to transcend my human urges. In fact, scrap that. I definitely don't. I like to be in control of them (IE, not obese, alcoholic or a nymphomaniac), but during my time on earth, I think I'd like to spend it doing earthly things - rather than floating hungry in the ether.

30 minutes later, and I'm hoping we'll start the stretching bit soon. I thought yoga was all about stretching! Apparently not. A lot of it is about balancing the majority of ones weight on ones head, and then discussing ones resulting dizziness in terms of reaching a higher state and getting closer to your goals. Considering my goal in attending an exercise class was a smaller bottom, I felt an overwhelming sense of being in the wrong place.

After balancing on our heads, we chanted 'Sat Nam' for an extended amount of time. Sat Nam sounds alarmingly like Sat Nav when repeated constantly, and I'd be lying if I said I was entirely focused after this discovery.

After Sat Nav, came the song about love. This is when yoga and I parted ways permanently, and irrevocably. I just haven't got it in me to sing a song about love with my eyes closed with 15 strangers. I felt remarkably stupid. And this really isn't to say I thought my fellow singers were stupid - far from it. I admired their ability to find meaning in it, and to engage with it without embarrassment or inhibition. There just wasn't an ounce of meaning in that room for me.

The next day, I headed to the gym with an iPod full of prodigy and ran. And ran. And ran. I felt free and alive and invigorated. I ran without embarrassment or inhibition. I found meaning. And maybe even a smaller bottom to boot.