Yoga and I

            I was fortunate to have the opportunity to vacation in Telluride, Colorado several times in my twenties.  I had the good fortune to get to know a family who owned several time shares up in Mountain Village, the ritzy part of Telluride far up above the town and in the mountains.  On one of my many vacations that they graciously offered me at no charge, I thought I would take advantage of some of the numerous amenities of the five star resort.  A Yoga class was advertised for the first morning of my stay.  Typically you need three days or so to acclimate to high altitude conditions, but what the hell.  I could stumble through it.  Yoga sounds like a great way to become one with the earth and to heal your inner self.  I know I have an inner self, but I think it is on a crash course with my outer self who isn’t much for being in harmony with anything. 

            I was in the deepest pit of my depression that summer.  School had just ended for the year and I thought taking this trip would help me heal, though I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me and why I felt so sad. Nonetheless, I managed to pull together enough energy and strength to pack and board a plane for Colorado.  I wore pajamas to the Yoga class, not knowing that Yoga was a hot activity and I would soon be dripping in sweat. 

            The Yoga teacher was a woman in her mid-fifties with gray hair and the kind of body that you could clearly tell had been through the wringer.  She had to have been a pot head in her early days.  Maybe she still was. She was living in Telluride.  There seemed to be a fair bit of pot and other substance availability in the town. She might be in the circle of trust.  I was unfortunate enough to be the first to arrive to the class.  She sized me up.  I checked her out as well.  There wasn’t a physical attraction.  This was good.  I can’t perform well with attractive people around.  She asked me to help create the mood in the room by moving the tables and chairs to the side, dimming the lights and helping set up the radio to play the new age music.  What the hell?  Do I look like the help?  Apparently so.  I guess tall, dorky looking people do often look like the help.  I heaved and shoved tables and chairs out of the way and broke a sweat.  This was a direct correlation to my lack of physical fitness.  I was out of shape.  I still am today, but it is easier to talk about the past when it is unpleasant than the present, which is much more dismal.

            As the class was underway I was disappointed to see some young teenage girls come in.  Now I would have to be all cool and calm and act like an experienced Yoga expert.  This troubled me, because, I am only good at two things in life.  Yoga isn’t one of them. The teacher, Ms. Hippy Dippy, roamed the room and talked often of Downward Dog and other names that sounded very odd to me and didn’t really make sense with the movements we were making.   One movement called for us to arch our backs and have our feet up against the wall.  It was interesting.  Well, while my feet are slammed to the wall and my belly is arching upward I could feel my shirt slide down my back.  My belly was out there; staring up at the ceiling and Mrs. Hippy Dippy came over and patted my belly.  This was not part of the deal.  There were NO freebies for old women, especially not an irritating Yoga instructor.  She told me I should “share” myself with the women in our class.  Did she mean I should sex them up?  Befuddled, I said, “Huh?”  She said, “Shhhh, Just go with it, Joby.”  I wasn’t sure what I was going with, but I was curious to know more, albeit nearly horrified to think that I would be sharing myself with two teenagers, and four female senior citizens in the Yoga class.  This wasn’t going to happen.  As I look back on this experience, I don’t think she was talking about me having sex with them, but rather about sharing my Yoga energy with them.  My energy sucked, actually.  I couldn’t get over being embarrassed with my belly hanging out, so much that I couldn’t get into the groove.  All of this masked the true reason.  I was out of shape and couldn’t maintain the poses too long without looking like I was going to poop.

            Later during the class, Ms. Hippy Dippy came over while I was assuming the ass up position on all fours.  She pressed my ass down.  I was shocked.  She copped a freebie on my bum.  Now, I am all for having a free feel, but please, be someone I am actually interested in before you grab my bottom.  It is a flat one too.  My friends Kim and Dave from Iowa tell me from time to time that I have a flat ass.  I don’t think that is a compliment, but it is true.

            As soon as the Yoga instructor was done getting a good feel on my rear end I stood up and walked out of the class.  I sucked at Yoga.  I didn’t like this grandma copping free feels on my assets, and most of all; I was pooped out and didn’t care to go on.  This was a bad idea.  I spent the rest of the vacation (two weeks) on the lookout for the hippy Yoga instructor so as not to have to explain why I left the class so abruptly.