I’ve started a new job, and it means the world to me. I need to be consistent and stay on track so I’ve joined a swanky gym, which would make your eyes hurt if you knew how much I was paying for it. But it’s a lot less then what I used to pay for getting into mischief, and I hope to become even more stable and rounded in my journey back to world domination.
Yoga is notoriously lauded for stabilising people, so I decide to take the advice of the cheery chap who did my induction. They offer six different classes a day from Hatha to Yin to hot to Ashtanga. It’s big business and the classes book up faster than all the rest. I was told on the front desk that many people do a 30-day commitment to see a huge life-changing result. I can’t commit to this but make a pact to fit in 5 classes a week. My ambition is more overall health and peace of mind, but let’s not kid ourselves – I want a banging yoga bod too!
From a health perspective, the yoga body is really one to want. It improves strength and mobility, enhances posture and balance and boosts circulation. It aids digestion and (if you believe in it), detoxification. It makes us long limbed, flexible and then undeniably f***able. That’s not me being outrageous. It’s a fact that if you’re in tune with your breathing and core in the way that yoga teaches, you are going to not just be more agile at sex, but able to be more in control of and have better orgasms.
The yoga gang also rave about its benefits for mental health. We’re led to believe that people who do yoga are zen and have their lives together, though when I look around my friends, I realise that everyone I know who is a yogarite is batsh*t crazy. And while it was once the realm of “woo-woo” types, who do all the reading, who take psychedelics for “spiritual” purposes, who may have embarked on an ayahuasca adventure, yoga is now as common as it gets. Fashion, sport, celebrities, you name it. It’s good intention with great PR.
I have a complicated relationship with yoga. I’ve never enjoyed it. I’m not physically built for it. I’m a big girl. I’m almost 5’11 and built like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I have short arms, tiny hands and feet, a huge bottom, and thick, strong long legs. I also have a tiny back and massive tits and while I’m not sure if lady Tyrannosauruses had this issue, it gives me no upper body strength and makes it nigh on impossible to do certain poses. I have been told by every instructor I’ve ever worked with that this is simply down to my investment, but I know it’s not.
The first class I opt for is Ashtanga, as I have done this before. It’s considered dynamic and powerful, but what that really means to me is fast and furious. As expected, the class is full of lithe people already showing off how bendy and balanced they are, practising headstands before class even starts. I’m instantly off to an insecure start. The class kicks off with my instructor, who is less guide and more drill sargent, chanting rehearsed lines at the class. It’s hard to follow, too fast and the positions are just really difficult. The instructor comes to realign a pose that I’m already really struggling with. This makes me cross. I find myself internally raging for the rest of the class. There is too much instruction, too much to think about and my mind does anything but switch off. I can’t wait for the class to finish.
When it does, I flee for the pool, really feeling the doom of what I’ve signed up to. The second I’m in the pool, I can focus – in a way I haven’t for years. I have so much on my mind, but after a 30-minute swim I’ve recalibrated my whole life, I have a plan and my brain is now sharper than Peter Cook’s wit. This is what I expected from yoga. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day?
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It isn’t. I choose Yin yoga this time as it’s slow and meditative. I’m sore from the day before so all stretching is painful, but this is officially the worst exercise class I have ever done. You hold fewer poses for longer periods of time. Three to ten minutes in the same position. But this is like dog years. A minute of yoga-time extends infinitely. I fold into (allegedly) a gentle stretch. By three minutes I’m bargaining with God. After five my hip flexors are squealing their last will and testament. The teacher repeats: “Surrender to the pose”. This isn’t yoga – it’s a hostage situation with my hamstrings. I hate it. I’ve had enough, and I leave seething.
Again, it’s my 30-minute swim that drags me out of my terrible mood and into a brilliant mindset.
I give it a rest for a few days. I’m in too much pain to even walk. This says more about me than the campaign trail I’m trying to sustain. Friday comes round and I force myself into hot yoga. I didn’t read the small print. It goes on for an extra half an hour. I’ve melted into a puddle of sweat. Every extremity is wobbling. I am truly close to passing out.
I carry this on for another week, but I am miserable. I can now categorically say that yoga is not chill and nor are the people who commit to it.
So, I do something that I never do when I follow an ambition. I sack it off. I now go to spin or do body pump 2-3 times a week and I swim 5 days.
It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. Not only is swimming a brilliant cardiovascular exercise, but there is also a lot of evidence that it outshines yoga in meditative mind and body regulation. One large study, published in the Journal of Aquatic Research and Education in 2008, followed 40,000 people over 32 years and found that swimmers had lower mortality rates than most other forms of exercise. Sure, you don’t get the flexibility you get through yoga, but the mental health benefits are arguably stronger.
Of course it’s horses for courses, but the inner truth is that my yoga journey has revealed is that I hate yoga. However, this month has also shown me that I love swimming. So while I might not have got there along the path I intended, I feel I am well on my way towards my ambition of better health and improved peace of mind. And honestly, I think swimmer bods are pretty banging too.
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