I've been an active person most of my life. I grew up in martial arts and team sports, spending years traveling around, diving in front of soccer balls or punching people in the face (not during the same events, usually). After college I gravitated to grappling and fitness, supplementing my judo and jiu jitsu with HIIT and powerlifting. As long as I could remember, my stocky frame somehow managed to be muscular and unusually flexible all at once. It was awesome.
About a month ago, I woke up one morning to discover that my previously mobile left hip was frozen in place, unable to hinge backward with ease. My heart sunk. No more squatting, no more deadlifting, no more fun stuff at all; at least not until I could get this under control. Bummer. So, after a respectable period of moping, I grit my teeth, pulled up Google and researched something I hoped I'd never need: yoga.
It's weird to go to your first ever yoga class. While they are very kind, yoga people seem to assume that your first class at their studio could not possibly be your first yoga class ever of all time because after we entered the space and received a tour from the nice man at the front desk, we were pretty much on our own to figure out what to do once we got to the room.
Inside, people who seemed to have done many yogas had formed some haphazard rows of mats, but they'd mostly arranged themselves movie theater style, such that everyone had at least enough space for another mat on either side of themselves, but there really wasn't room for two new mats together. Not wanting to stand around like an obvious novice any longer, I shrugged and told my companion that she was on her own and found my way to a spot between a girl in a Lululemon tank top and a wall.
Funny thing: no matter where I am, even in familiar places, I'm always most comfortable with my back or at least my side to the wall. Whether it be a college classroom or seat yourself restaurant, I've always instinctively positioned myself along the perimeter. Knowing there's a solid entity defining my position seems to anchor me and, in so doing, relieves a little bit of anxiety. Don't worry too much though, there are about a zillion other sources of anxiety in the yoga room, so rest assured I've not found my zen just yet.
Anyway, eventually the class begins and I do my best to follow along, my years of grappling and strength training helping to mask the fact that I don't know what the fuck a chataranga is. It was sweaty, slippery and occasionally mildly painful as I made my way from pose to pose. I'm not sure about all the spine lengthening, connecting with breath or rooting to the earth, but I do love the idea of never having to speak to anyone before, during or after in order to participate. It's really just a bonus that each session seems to end with everyone in the room doing their level best impressions of a dead body for minutes on end.
After class, it was chaotic enough in the locker room and lobby that I managed to escape un-small talked, which was almost reason enough to come back again, which I am, tomorrow. Yoga: not the best, not the worst. Namaste, mother fuckers.
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