It’s morning. I wake up, already exhausted, looking forward to my afternoon nap. Is this what a middle aged, menopausal funk looks like? Is there something I can do about it? Whenever I ask others, the answer always seems to be yoga. Well, I say, “No-go” to yoga!
Yoga, I have tried to love you, like you, or sometimes just barely tolerate you. But it’s over between us, and we are not getting back together. I realize this might get me shunned in my East Side hipster enclave, or by any over-40s in the greater Los Angeles basin. But I hate you, yoga! I truly do. Why must all your venues smell of feet? I have tried prenatal yoga, postnatal yoga, Mommy and Me yoga, Iyengar yoga, Vinyasa yoga, Hatha yoga, everything but Bikram torture yoga (you know, the one where the heat is turned up for maximum feet smell).
Everyone is always like, “But I feel so great after I do yoga.” And there it is… I must be doing it wrong, or not good enough, because I don’t feel that way. I feel mildly annoyed that I just spent $15 on a class where nothing but a fart came out of my attempted poses. I feel achy and light headed, sore and worn out. I feel embarrassed and sad that I’m not connecting to something that gives pleasure, energy, and toned upper arms to a great many. I know in class they say, “Only do what you can,” but when I’ve looked around I’ve been the only one not doing what I could. Was I more honest with my body’s limitations? Or has years of being picked last for teams led to less fear about showing my weaknesses? Either way, I say, “F.U., yoga. I’m going for a walk!”