Yesterday I did something I swore I would never do again. I went to a yoga class.
Over the years I’ve tried yoga occasionally, lured by the dual promise of serenity and flexibility, but each time have found it too dull for words. I think it’s the air of piety that usually puts me off. That, and the prospect of falling into whispered conversation with someone who, without any apparent irony, might embark on an anecdote from a past life. And frankly, if I don’t break a sweat these days, it feels like a bit of a waste of time.
So what on earth possessed me to try it again? The blame lies squarely at the feet of the Mistress of The Boot Camp, Vikki Scovell, who emailed all her boot campers with a challenge.
“All of you runners and Booty blokes and babes would benefit from some increased flexibility,” she said. “I have seen you with your tight hamstrings and shoulders at the end of class.”
Well, anyone who knows me will understand that I can’t resist a challenge. It helped a lot, too, that she called it Fitness Yoga. And when she solemnly swore that there would be “absolutely no emptying of nostrils, no serious faces, no being made to stand on your head, no chanting, humming, spleen-massage and very little breaking of wind”, I was in.
It turned out to be the missing bit of the fitness jigsaw. Within a few (pleasingly sweaty) minutes, as we Down Dogged (stop sniggering at the back) and Warrior Posed, I realised what she meant about my lack of flexibility. It felt really, really good to be stretching and flexing, and I could see that not all exercise has to involve grunt and heft.
There was also a fair amount of giggling, which is always a bonus for an incorrigible giggler like me. Though if it’s laughing yoga you’re really after, maybe this is the teacher for you:
