I’m deformed.
All right, maybe that is a bit dramatic but, due to some genetic weirdness in my spine I have occasional muscle spasms in my back. Lots of people have muscle spasms, mine just happen to have been handed down to me along with mousy brown hair and detached earlobes. I like my earlobes just fine and I discovered the magic of chemical hair processing before I was old enough to wear a bra so, on the whole, I’ve either accepted what I’ve been given or found ways around it. Not so much with the back thing. The spasms have occurred, intermittently, for most of my life and for years people have suggested I do yoga as a way to manage it. For years I’ve ignored the suggestion.
It’s not that I have anything against yoga. I just couldn’t envision myself doing it very well. Neither my mind nor my body is quite that limber. Physically, I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop, and the notion of getting my brain to settle down and think only one or two thoughts at a time is challenging, but emptying it of all thought and getting to a meditative state is just laughable. I knew it wasn’t something I’d be good at. And like most people, I don’t make a point of trying out things I know I’ll do poorly. But, a bout of spasms came on recently, worse than usual and requiring drugs stronger than Advil, so I began to think about giving yoga a chance after all. I decided to try out a class or two.
As a neophyte, I thought yoga was yoga. I had no idea there were different styles and levels. In my search for a class, however, I saw several different types listed. At the time my back was in an active spasm complete with a highly excitable sciatic nerve, but I figured I had to start sometime, so I picked a class. Once I hobbled in the room, though, I decided it might be a good idea to check with the instructor about the wisdom of participating. I explained my situation and she, in turn, explained that I had chosen an advanced yoga class for my introduction. Of course I had.
There I was, slightly cocked to the left while my overzealous back muscles maintained a constant state of contraction, about to embark on an advanced level yoga class for the first time. Maybe I should have reconsidered. But the instructor was encouraging and told me to just do what I could, so I figured I might as well try. Besides, I had the pants.
Not that I had gone out and purchased yoga pants just for this occasion. I hadn’t. I had gone out and purchased yoga pants a while back when, after weeks of sitting at my computer working on my dissertation, my jeans had all begun to cut off circulation. I could breathe again. So, while I hadn’t gotten yoga pants for yoga, here they were, on my body and ready to help me. Truly, the right outfit can give you confidence to do anything. It's like magic. I slowly got on the floor for my first yoga class.
I started the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. I ended the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. And I spent most of the time in between crouched on the floor in child’s pose. Perhaps I needed to start at a more beginning level.
On day two I attended a class designed for beginners. My back had calmed down a bit and I hoped I could perform the asanas reasonably well. The instructor was a woman older than I and about a third my size. She spoke in a low, calm monotone, and folded herself into positions that were surely not meant for the human body. Several times during the class I thought, you have got to be freaking kidding! I might have said it out loud a time or two which, I guess you aren’t supposed to do in a meditative yoga class. Regardless, the teeny-tiny-rubber-woman was gracious toward me and occasionally gave me quiet little hints when I was doing things backwards. It was humbling, to say the least.
I tried yet a different class on day three and this time while attempting to stand on one leg and extend my arms out in front of me as the other leg stretched out behind me, I ended up toppling over, letting out a little shriek, and catching myself to prevent falling to the floor. Whatever peaceful place others in the class had reached, they were all snapped back to reality by the awkward blond woman in the corner whose body was hurling across the room. I had been correct in my assumption I’d be a moronic yogini.
I didn’t think I’d be good at yoga and I was right. In fact, I am terrible at it. So far I’ve learned nothing about mediating but I’m learning a lot about humility. I don’t really like being the unintentional yoga class clown. If I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll settle down and reap the benefits to body, soul, and mind. But if I accomplish nothing more than keeping back spasms at bay, that is good enough. Although we don't like to admit it, sometimes it’s okay to just be good enough.
So, while it is true that nobody will ever call me Swami Sue. If I want to, I can imagine I'm gracefully folding into pretzel shapes and drifting into a state of mindlessness.
I am, afterall, wearing magic yoga pants.
