Like many PR professionals, I’m Type A. So, in the last few years a bunch of folks have strongly recommended I take up yoga: all my friends, my daughter, sister, mom, all other relatives, every doc, my colleagues, everyone in my apartment building and every facebook friend (so basically everyone I know). Meantime, I’m about ready to shoot anyone I see toting a yoga mat looking really relaxed and serene on their way to drink chai tea and read some 650 page book for book club. I mean, how many yoga mats can there possibly be? I’m obviously in the wrong biz.
I’m athletic and fit, but am also stressed to the max so I seem like the perfect candidate. So, why won’t I give yoga a try? Because I know there’s no way I can figure out all these oddball positions. I’d be the one in the back of the beginners’ class about two positions behind everyone else in the class and that just doesn’t sit right with me.
And the poses…downward facing dog, mountain, pyramid, triangle, warrior… what masochist came up with these back-breaking, pretzel twists?
When she’s in town from LA (yoga central) my 24 year old daughter comes back from hot yoga dripping, healthy and calm to find me on my bed watching The Food Network or In Treatment eating my frozen Snickers or dunking Oreos into a cold cup of milk.
I can handle tennis, volleyball, hiking, the treadmill and weights, but the thought of having to unfurl my mat and contort myself in time with a room full of yoga maniacs gives me goosebumps.
My hat’s off to anyone who can go from downward facing dog to the warrior pose without a glitch, but it’s not me. Give me 30 minutes with a tennis pro to beat the hell out of a Wilson 2 and then a really good burger and fries and my needle moves from Type A to Type B…at least temporarily. So much for yoga.