I hate yoga. Alot.

In the past 3 days I have made it to the gym 3 times, which is a 100% improvement over the past 6 months. Although I developed a steady gym habit a little over a year ago, my commitment and attendance has severely dropped due to the working of two jobs and a strong desire for laziness in my off hours.

Sunday, I kicked off this New Year's Resolution by running (mostly)/walking 4 miles on the treadmill. Monday, I put managed a one mile run on the treadmill and an hour long Pilates class, and, tonight, 2.6 miles run/walk on treadmill followed by a "yoga for runners" class. I figure if I am going to transform myself into a runner for the first time in my life I should have some direct guidance in how to counteract the effects of this new endeavor.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a flexible person. As a child I was long and lithe, and at varying times took both gymnastics and acrobatic classes. I had great balance, decent coordination and strong limbs. I could hurdle over the beams and bars, cartwheel around the room, and spring forward or backward with the best of them. Full splits? No way. Cirque du Soliel quality backbends? Nope. This inflexibility has followed me into adulthood and into my health routines.

About 5 years ago, after getting through graduate school, I found myself weighing 230+ pounds. I don't remember the high water mark for my flab but it got pretty bad and I felt horrid. Even at the time, I was not an inactive person. For example, my friends, boyfriend and I backpacked a length of the Pacific Crest Trail, from Mt. Hood to the Columbia Gorge, with 40 extra pounds in my pack and on my ass. So when I began attending group exercise classes at my gym I was not a completely floppy fish, sweating and red-faced after 10 minutes on a treadmill. Nor was I the athlete that was part of my childhood identity.

The classes were a way to make me complete a full hour of exercise, hold myself to a high standard and partake in a variety of movements to slim and tone. Yoga classes were on my to-do list and I discovered yoga makes me cry. Everytime.

It's not that it's particularly hard or particularly painful, though it can be both. It's that I don't relax. I don't bend and my mind does not quiet. Sitar music and reed pipes suck. And when someone says the phrase "chataranga to the floor" I want to choke them with the elastic bands hanging on the wall. Scoffing is general practice of mine and for some reason people don't scoff during yoga. My derision falls on quiet contemplative grunting as the ladies on mats next to me triangle pose them selves. I can't muscle my way through through the class, 'cause duh, it's not about forcing anything. And I can't take a break then complete the set, 'cause duh, the set is just the same from start to finish. And I can't get my body to line up and bend over and Warrior 1 and down dog and BREATHE all at the same time. So I relent in the only way I know how which is to chant my personal mantra, "I hate yoga. I hate yoga. I hate yoga." Inevitably, I just barely make it to the 60 minute mark, my eyes red, my nose stuffy, which makes mouth breathing essential, and am asked to be grateful to my body and the universe and my classmates and whatever for making it through the class and NAMASTE.

So.

Next week, I will go again. I will. Perhaps because I am a sucker for self flagilation.

Or perhaps because it seems like the thing to do, this practice of flexibility and breathing.

Or whatever.

Namaste.