Anyong, chingus! Lindsay here.
Well I have a new hobby. A new new one I should say. I’m all about hobbies these days and will soon be on the receiving end of a new sewing machine. More on THAT later.
When my friend Angie started talking about her new yoga class, I was definitely interested. I needed a new form of exercise. One that doesn’t cause all my spandex to smell like Whit’s running shoes (which is bad, people. BAD.) Not that I am throwing running out the window. It’s my mainstay. But some days, I need a little diversity in my life. Especially in the Land of the Morning Calm.
So I decided to give yoga a go. I’m definitely a newbie. I’ve tried it a few times before–once with Whit after he talked me into it, told me ‘you’re in your own world there..no one will stare if you don’t know what to do’ which was about an hour before the teacher stopped class abruptly to fix my non-yoga-like downward dog to the stares of ALL my yoga-pro classmates.
Then there were the do-it-at-home yoga videos. I had one specifically for runners. It has now been gathering dust for about four years. And then I downloaded a yoga video led by a kind elderly lady on the Internet this spring which I figured out after the workout that it was most likely made for elderly folk like herself.
I was nervous about the class. Not only am a yoga virgin, but the class would be in Korean. Angie assured me that no one stares, not even at the foreigners. And there are several foreigners who attend this popular class a short bike ride away from my apartment.
So I went. About two minutes into it, I was uncomfortable, sitting with my hands clasped and my knees folded beneath me for about 10 minutes too long while Ommmming to the hum of a constant drone. Then we were stretching. Rolling. Bending. Holding. Holding. Holding. I looked around. Feet were touching heads. Angie just shook her head. She couldn’t do it either. But the teacher really really wants me to do it. I am so close she must think (inaccurately). She grabs my foot in the air and pulls it toward my arm, which is currently behind my back reaching for my foot (lost yet?). They won’t touch and I fall over sideways.
But much to my surprise, no one notices. Angie giggles. Only because she suffers from the same problem.
Soon, the class looks like an upside-down photograph, legs sticking high in the air, hands on lower backs. This is fun. I tell myself. I loved doing this as a kid in front of the TV. Five minutes goes by. Not so much fun anymore. I look around. My classmates are in a total zen state. I wonder again if I am going to be able to get out of bed in the morning. I look at my teacher. She is currently standing on her head. On. Her. Head!
We continue with strange bends, moves, stretches. Backs arched. Feet sideways. Stretch. Hold. Hanna. Tulle. Set. Net. Eventually we rest (translated: collapse) on the floor. The teacher comes by and moves me into a resting position that must look similar to a walking Egyptian pharoh. I think the police better come draw the chalk lines. It’s over.
But despite the aches and pains, and the continued aches and pains today–the day after–I think I have found my new hobby. No pain, no gain, isn’t that what they say?