For years, I’ve felt obligated to say I like yoga. Who doesn’t like it? It’s the cool thing to do. Soul-enriching exercise. Stretchy pants. Hollywood endorsements. Hip and calm. But after enrolling in three different classes and enduring hours that felt like years, I am stopping my lies: I hate yoga.
I hate the way the teachers speak in breathy whispers. I want them to speak up, because when I’m in the downward dog position, I’m distracted by others’ unseemly body parts encroaching on my personal space.
I know I’m supposed to lose myself in yoga class, taking on a blank, yet peaceful state of mind. I try to forget about work-related stress, the grocery list, and that mole on my leg that might look funny enough to schedule a trip to the dermatologist. But then I start obsessing about how and when I’m going to get everything done, and worries about my mole turn into nightmarish daydreams about chemotherapy and dying from skin cancer. Now how is yoga going to help me with that?
Not only do my worries surface in yoga class, they become amplified by the fact that I’m cheating on some stretch that feels terrible and doesn’t seem to burn any calories anyway. My watch becomes my enemy, and the minutes pass as slowly as the teacher whispers.
“Hurry up!” I want to scream. But the teacher, oblivious to my panicked anxiety, closes her eyes and groans, “ooohhhhmmmm.” And that is when I know—for sure—that I am in the wrong place.
I’ve taken yoga classes at independent, artsy centers and at large gyms. I’ve taken prenatal yoga, beginner’s yoga, and intermediate yoga. I’ve bought a mat, comfortable pants, and contemplated purchasing a tape. But despite the scenery changes and the yoga-infused consumerism, I always find myself back at the starting line.
During the first yoga class I ever took, I passed gas during a breathing exercise. The teacher at the “Healing Arts Center” immediately commended my body’s natural reaction, but instead of soaking in the praise, I got a case of the giggles that did not stop for the rest of the hour-long class. The teacher’s praise turned into reproachful glances and then angry stares as it became clear that I was not mature enough to handle yoga or a fart.
