It’s been an absolutely perfect day in Sydney, one of those gorgeous blue-sky pearlers where it feels like the absolute best place on earth. The water is so clear you can see straight down to the bottom from hundreds of metres away. It’s much easier on a day like today shaking off the winter doldrums, because it doesn’t feel much like winter at all. I haven’t been running for quite a while because of that whole false start, here-one-day-gone-the-next pregnancy thing, but I did go today. Which is good, because the effects of winter linger longer every year.
Which brings me to yoga. Two of my good friends who live locally go to yoga twice or thrice weekly. They look fantastic, and they swear by it. They’ve also tried to get me to come. Many, many times. And once, I actually signed up for a course with Llew, and paid some ridiculous amount of money in advance for classes that I would eventually, inevitably, invariably miss. I should have known by the start time alone that I was not long for the yoga mat: 6:15 am or something equally evil. I’m not doing anything but rolling over and letting out a meaty snore at that hour of the morning; what was I thinking?? Why deny who I am? Why pretend?
It was a good lesson to learn. No more paying in advance, and no more ‘soft’ yoga for me. The thing about exercise is that if I’m going to force myself to do some in the first place, then I really like it to feel as though it’s doing some good. For me, this means cardio. Sweat. Racing heart. Aching legs. Adrenalin. None of this namby pamby Pilates poncery. If it doesn’t hurt, it’s not exercise. It’s activity. A leisure pursuit. Recreation, perhaps. But not exercise. Exercise = punishment. As far as I’m concerned, exercise is the price I pay for my decadent, no-holds-barred, pass-the-cheese lifestyle. So I don’t want to be calm and assume the lotus position. I want to smack something.
My friends assure me that the new yoga place they go to isn’t about feeling all Zen at the end, which is great, because I walk in there and spot so much as an incense stick and I am out of there. Assuming they ever get me in there, that is. Because it’s winter, you see, so I am teetering, although not necessarily toward the tantric… I just need an indoor option. At the first sign of rain out on the boardwalk, I retire my runners faster than the first drop can fall. Lazy. I’m a lazy runner. If it’s inclement, I’m reclining. Except winter food beckons, and then after a few weeks of wet weather and warm pudding, I am in all sorts of trouble. So I need a back up exercise program that I can do indoors in wet weather. Could their hardcore yoga be it? I don’t know… Yoga people have always been pretty high on my list of things to smack (you know the ones, and don’t pretend you don’t), so the idea of doing yoga myself is ALL WRONG. Whenever I talk to my friends about their fantastic course – and I can see how fit they both are as a result of it – I think “Maybe. Maybe I can do this.” But the second I’m away from their yoga evangelising and back on the beachfront, I sort of come to my senses and remember the Failed Experiment of the last time I tried it. Maybe we all just need to accept that it’s not for me. Maybe I should take up boxing instead