Once again, my trusty Time Out Magazine succeeded in occupying my tube journey with content far more funny than the repetitive signage around me telling me about Heathrow or something. And this week’s article ‘Top Five Yoga Types’ had me reminiscing on my treasured yoga class memories, so much so that I sought to record these valuable memories in a little blog post…!
Yes, I was once the first ‘yoga type’: the Beginner. Upon entering the studio, I casually copied the ladies, who seemed to know the routine, collect their mats, bolsters and little blocks, found a small space on the floor, reclined in the corner of the room and stuffed the bolster awkwardly under my back. Closed my eyes and pretended to be relaxed. I was not. I sneakily opened my eyes to check the others were still there (if the excessively loud breathing didn’t give it away) and saw the instructor entering to start the class. Phew! Some instructions rather than desperately peering at the person on an adjacent mat and copying their everymovement!!
Yes, I also remember the second yoga type: the Farter (I hasten to add that wasn’t me!). It was all silent and calm in the studio on one Saturday session I attended, but obviously too much so for one lady, who broke the silence with a loud rasp of wind.
And how could I have forgotten the ‘Headstander’, the really keen middle-aged woman who was obviously jealous of my ability to do the splits. It would have given me great pleasure to pat her on the back and say, “Soz, Clem. Ruthie’s evidently more stretchy than you”, but I chose to be mindful of her feelings.
I still recall the powerful stench of the penultimate yoga type: the Sweater. To describe his red face as a beetroot would be an offensive understatement. Regardless, I admire his sheer effort and endurance, but doubt I’ll ever forgive him for forcing the rest of us to endure that awful smell
In all honesty I cannot think of the Yogi, the ‘Lazybones’. The bulk of the ladies (and the one man aka the Sweater) were pretty competitive and daren’t drop out of downward dog into child pose. Therefore I’ll add a couple of my own yoga types…
I must start with my absolute favourite lady, called Bridget, a lady in her late 60s (?), but my God could she yoga*!! She is what I miss the most about the yoga classes. Such a sweet lady, she could slide at ease into the splits and those arms of hers had no problem with the killer sun salutation. Despite being the oldest, she was also the envy of the group!
Secondly I would like to mention the rather two ladies who I will call the Misfortunate Yogis. After a restorative 90 minute session, I was in the lobby, lacing up my trainers when I was disturbed by scream and screeching of tyres. Stunned, we all ran to see what was going on and lying in the road was one of the other yoga ladies, Janet. And inside the looming car was another Yogi looking slightly gobsmacked. Thank God, the victim was okay and escaped lightly with a rather feisty bruise on her face and stiff back. But the driver was not so lucky and her damaged conscience didn’t let her return again. Understandably.
And finally there was the Young one. She was about 30 years younger than the mean age of the class attendees and looked completely out of place. She was nearly always late and sat quietly whilst the other ladies chatted about adult issues and their lazy hubbies. She tried to make conversation and sometimes succeeded when the others started to feel sorry for her and asked her about school. The yoga trousers she wore were amateur and definitely too baggy so she’s spend half the session holding them up. And it was super awks on one occasion when she left WITHOUT paying, only phoning up in a panic an hour later in a bid to apologise for the mistake. She no longer attends the classes because apparently she got a Saturday job at Waitrose… I think her name was ‘Ruth’…?