Yoga is a bitch

I started going to yoga classes. My back hurts and I need exercise badly. Plus, I've always admired those spiritual people who seem poised and content and at peace. Finally, I succeeded to quit smoking (it's more than 5 months, go me!) so I thought it only made sense to push the whole healthy-living thing to its limit.

Yoga, I thought would be great. Until I started taking classes. The exercise is fine, really. It's one of very few things that I've tried, sportwise, that I find doable and unintimidating. I was down with the weird position names, I gave it my all and greeted the sun or whatever those solar movements are supposed to signify, I stood on one foot and held on for dear life when instructed to rock back and forth on my back. However, when my instructor yelled at me SEVERAL times for not keeping my back straight I found it really hard to force my tears back in.



Call me spoiled or overly sensitive, but I think I get to worry enough about performance at work. Hell, my job is all about getting people to do their best every day all day. So when I went to freakin' yoga class, I really did not expect that I would have to worry about meeting people's expectations and having to explain myself when I failed to do so. Prof. Grady tells me that as far as he knows, all good yoga instructors are awful like that. He thinks it's better this way because at least the woman is showing that she cares about me getting the maximum out of my workout. He is probably right.

Like most things, yoga only works when you are doing it all JUST RIGHT. But, yet again, LIKE MOST THINGS that are good for you, yoga is total fuckin bitch. And I've got the back-bruises to prove it.