I think it’s about twelve months now that I have been partaking in regular bouts of pilates and yoga.
I did do a Body Pump class in that time, too. Just the once. It was okay, I just didn’t make it back. Probably because I didn’t enjoy it so much. Or just … because.
Pilates is good.
I struggled a bit with yoga.
Not because it was too airy-fairy and woo woo and ‘spiritual.
The class I do isn’t.
Not because the instructor stops every 47 seconds to spend a minute and a half talking about the next pose, including, but not limited to the spiritualness, zenness, and Getting In Touch With Your Higher Beingness of it.
The class I do isn’t like that.
And not because it is filled with pervy men who only go to look at the bottoms of slim, blonde, spread eagled and bent over schmexy-hot looking women.
The class I do has neither.
Or, well, maybe it does. I haven’t really noticed any hot looking bods of any gender or non-gender, and I haven’t felt any awkwardness, nor seen any pervy staring. From any pervy type person, of any selection from the rainbow spectrum of gender or non-gender.
None of those things.
When I first started, I’d watch the instructor; tall and slim, small of bosom, blonde-bobbed of hair, and funky legginged.
She’d move with grace from one move to the next, rarely ever having to adjust her hands or feet as she downward dogged before smoothly transitioning into a warrior two.
She would lightly jump from a forward fold and into a plank (using all the yoga-y terminology that I can never remember once I leave a class), supplely sliding to a child’s pose before partaking in some cobra, finishing, after a few more elegant body movements, in a triganasama (I may have made that word up).
At first, I forgave myself for being ‘just new’ and all ‘it’s my first day/week/month/half-year’, with my constant readjustment of hands, feet, knees, and toes with every move.
After a time, I had to accept that it wasn’t my newness, but … well, me.
Which is where I, admittedly, went through a bit of an ‘I’m useless’ phase, which inevitably, if I let my guard down, tacks on a bit of an ‘at everything’ for added fun.
My severe inability to lightly jump from downward dog into the squatty bit to prepare for completion of your second sun salutation morphed into ‘I’m useless at everything’.
I know some of you know that fun-filled activity.
Still, I was determined to persist. Despite my lack of being perfect – a blight on my soul – I enjoyed the classes and the good stuff I got (and still get) out of them.
I worked hard on my grace and elegance, before I took a good – non-pervy – look at the instructor.
Aside from her very blonde bob and smallish boobs in contrast to my very black lesbian haircut and buxomness, there were significant other differences.
She’s a good foot, and more, taller than me.
She is lithe, where I am a classic v-shaped, mesomorph.
I’m more like a short, stocky version of, say, Dwayne Johnson.
Or, hmm, probably more Melissa McCarthy or Rebel Wilson.
Ok, ok. Kung Fu Panda.
She has a legitimate thigh gap in her 5-foot long legs.
In order for me to attain any level of thigh gap, well …
Look, don’t get me wrong and go into the whole body shaming shit, and how I should ‘love my body’ etc etc.
Because, in essence, that’s what I’m getting to.
Once I checked her out without ‘checking her out ;)’ if you know what I mean, it hit me that she was designed for yoga.
She was proportioned correctly for such activity. I, on the other hand, have sizeable breasts, chunky thighs, and broad ribs that were broadened further during the carriage of my offspring in my womb.
It is physically impossible to fold in half, and look like I’m folded in half. Lots of my bits impede this very activity, and given many of these bits are required to meet during a variety of yoga moves, well, I’m less elegant and flowy than I’d like to think I am.
Even if I lost the excess body fat I’m carrying around with me, I would still never make it to 6 foot 2, size 8, and require a B-cup bra.
I think when I’m long dead and my flesh decomposed, a skeleton of my former self; even then I doubt I’d attain a thigh gap.
My body is just not designed like that.
My whole physiology is what makes my walking anywhere and everywhere easy and enjoyable.
Running, on the other hand, is all the opposite of that for me; it’s hurty, and jiggly, and most unenjoyable.
Thus, I accept – and encourage you to do the same – that these boobs are made for walking, not running nor yoga, not bungy jumping nor lying flat on my belly on the beach.
And that’s ok.
They don’t stop me enjoying the things I do – i.e. yoga – and give me a fabulous excuse for not doing the things I don’t enjoy – i.e. running (and don’t get me started on the oxymoron that is the ‘fun run’).
Not that I really entertain the idea of excuses; they just make other people comfortable if I can give them one.
Anyhoo, whilst I don’t kite well in yoga class, I’m not too bad at a warrior three or dancer’s pose.
And I totally rock the savasana at the end.