Conscious Choice: My First Yoga Class

August 2003

My First Yoga Class

Wherein a stiff Scotsman triumphs over shame, pain, and gravity

by Peter Cashmore

Picture the scene: I, Peter Cashmore, am reclining on a commodious sun lounger, sipping fine wine through a straw. Discreetly, I sneak a peek over the rim of my sunglasses, along the bulging hemisphere of my stomach, above the crest of my toes...to watch semi-clad females frolicking in the swimming pool as my children are led away for some "fun, fun, fun!" with an Hawaiian shirt-wearing chap named "Wayne."

No, it’s not the Mediterranean — southern England, in fact. But for this picky Scotsman, it’s...beautiful.

Suddenly these same libidinous eyes spot a "Jabba the Hutt" bulk surfacing from the pool’s end. It carries the willful look that is the universal symbol of one’s wife on a mission. With Mrs. Cashmore scuttling ever closer toward me, I do as any other sensible husband would — I feign a deep sleep.

"Come on now!" she exclaims. "You promised you were coming."

"But my sweet," I reply, wiping the fake sand from my eyes, "yoga is for wimps and women!"

"A category that accommodates you nicely."

"Getting personal now, are we?" I sneer. "All right, that’s it. I’m not going and that’s absolutely final."

There are 11 of us in the yoga class. Mrs. Cashmore has vanished into the tight-packed throng of black Lycra leggings. And therein lies the second problem — I’m the only man. And I’ve only got a meager millimeter of soggy nylon trunks to contain my dignity.

A moment later, a stick-thin instructor enters and extends a slender arm to ease the door shut with an ominous creak. "Alright!" she begins, with an irritating enthusiasm. "So we’re all up for a great workout, are we ladies?" There is a slight delay. "And gentleman." I cower as 20 beady eyes lock onto my badly exposed frame. "Well, I hope you’ve all been limbering up. Now just follow me and you’ll all do fine. Okay?"

Ms. One-Nutritious-Shake-At-Breakfast continues her spiel as I follow the young lady beside me, easing myself down onto a foam mat and compelling my legs to cross. I proceed with the minimum of muscular torment until we are instructed to hold out our arms and "lock" our spines. I have to locate abdominal muscles I never knew I had in order to quash gravity’s persistent attempts to topple me backwards. My hands now flailing and my entire body convulsing to maintain the "pose" (that is, posture, or asana), I source my body’s final iota of energy to swivel my arms skyward.

"Now hold the pose..."

Somewhere, a mayfly is born. It celebrates its childhood; parties away its teenage years; grumbles through a discontented middle age, and finally flutters into senescence to pass a fulfilling retirement in some leafy suburb.

"...and relax."

I’m the only one to audibly groan.

"And that," she taunts, "is what we call The Easy Position.

"Now are we ready for the difficult stuff?"

And so it continues for another 20 arduous minutes, until finally we come to the half shoulder stand. My insides are repositioning themselves as Ms. Tofu Joints flips manically onto her head like some crazed break-dancer. Actually, I’m relatively confident of this position. I lived out an inner city childhood during which, in the absence of a basketball, standing on your head was viewed as a highly skilled competitive sport. I take up a horizontal position on the mat and suddenly recall with alarm that the days when I could do a shoulder stand were the very same days when a single chair provided adequate space for both my buttocks. Nevertheless, Ms. Third-Eye-In-The-Back-Of-The-Head is now walking around between the mats, and this may be my only chance to prove myself. "I want all of you to lift your legs and backs smoothly off the mat." I’m primed. "Keep your backs straight." I’m taking a deep breath.

And now I’m airborne! Admittedly I have reached this position with all the elegance of a pregnant hippo, but it still feels like a real achievement.

"Try to keep those legs up, that’s right. I know it’s difficult." Ms. Rice-Cake-Ribs has now reached the lady beside me. "Keep on trying!" she enthuses.

"And look at this!" she exclaims as she observes my fine-tuned pose. "It takes a lotta skill to do that!"

I can’t help but beam. I’m receiving so many green looks from the others. It feels like a small victory for mankind in a practice so often dominated by the more graceful sex. "You know," Ms. Lotus-Blossom-Beauty-Queen continues as she admires my towering frame, "it’s easiest to balance if you have very strong, narrow shoulders..."

Why, thank you.

"...and a very heavy weight on top."

And so I return to the pool with head held high. My sun lounger awaits in recumbent splendor. Mrs. Cashmore, I imagine, is cowering somewhere in defeat. I recline, chardonnay in hand, and feign another deep sleep as running footsteps mark the return of my children, their impressionable young minds now crammed with bad fashion sense and their eyeballs seared with indelible afterimages of Hawaiian shirts and hula-hula skirts.

"Dad," they begin, "Mom says that if you’re so athletic..."

"Oh?...Yesssss?..." I have perked up like a beagle.

"...then you can take us to play tennis this afternoon!"

Scottish freelancer Peter Cashmore still enjoys his yoga practice — especially his favorite pose: The Couch Potato.

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