I suddenly recall with alarm that the days when I could do a shoulder stand were the very same days when a single chair provided adequate space for both of my buttocks.

By Peter Cashmore

Picture the scene: I’m reclining on a commodious sun lounger, sipping fine wine through a straw. Discreetly, I sneak a peek over the rim of my sunglasses, along the bulging hemisphere of my stomach, above the crest of my toes . . . to watch semi-clad females frolicking in the swimming pool as my children are led away for some "fun, fun fun!" with some Hawaiian shirt-wearing twit named "Wayne."

No, it’s not the Mediterranean – southern England, in fact. But for this picky Scotsman, it’s . . . beautiful.

Suddenly those same libidinous eyes spot a Jabba the Hutt hulk surfacing from the pool’s end. It carries the malicious look that is the universal symbol of one’s wife on a mission. With Mrs. Cashmore scuttling ever closer towards me, I do as any other sensible husband would – I feign a deep sleep.

"Come on now!" she exclaims. "You promised you were coming."

"But my sweet," I reply, wiping the fake sand from my eyes, "yoga is for wimps and women!"

"A category that accommodates you nicely."

"Getting personal now, are we? Well, I do hope that the exertion does something for all that cellulite of yours, Mrs.Thunderthighs!"

"And for that beer-gut of yours, Mr.Stretchmarkstomach!"

"Right, that’s it. I’m not going and that’s absolutely final."

There are eleven of us in the yoga class. Mrs. Cashmore has vanished into the tight-packed throng of black Lycra leggings. And therein lies the second problem – I’m the only man. And I’ve only got a meagre millimetre of soggy nylon trunks to contain my dignity.

There is, perhaps, a twinge of envy as the much-thinner-than-I-could-ever-hope-to-be (even on the Fast-Slim Masterplan Diet for Tubby Scotsmen) instructor enters and extends a slender arm to ease the door shut with an ominous creak. "Alright!" she begins, with an enthusiasm that suggests she is under the influence of a bad batch of recreational drugs. "So we’re all up for a great workout, are we ladies?" There is a slight delay. "And gentleman." I cower as twenty beady eyes lock onto my ignobly exposed frame. "Well, I hope you’ve all been limbering up. Now just follow me and you’ll all do fine. O.K.?"

Ms. One-Nutritious-Shake-At-Breakfast continues her spiel as I follow the young lady beside me, easing myself down onto a foam mat and compelling my legs to cross. I proceed with the minimum of muscular torment until we are instructed to hold out our arms and "lock" our spines. Now it is really beginning to hurt. I have to locate abdominal muscles I never knew I had in order to quash gravity’s persistent attempts to topple me backwards. I begin to regret having downed a hearty breakfast as my internal organs fling themselves about in a lively rendition of Musical Chairs. My hands now flailing and my entire body convulsing to maintain the "pose" (posture, or asana), I source my body’s final iota of energy to swivel my arms skyward.

"Now hold the pose . . ."

Somewhere, a mayfly is born. It celebrates its childhood; parties away its teenage years; grumbles through a discontented middle age; and finally flutters into senescence to pass a fulfilling retirement in some leafy suburb. ". . . and relax."

I’m the only one to audibly groan.

"And that," she taunts, "is what we call The Easy Position.

"Now are we ready for the difficult stuff?"

And so it continues for another twenty arduous minutes, until finally we come to the Half Shoulder Stand. I have just caught the eye of Mrs. Cashmore a few mats in front of me. Her calm composure, I suspect, conceals deep chinks in her yoga-endurance armour. Meanwhile, my own insides are repositioning themselves as Ms. Tofu Joints flips manically onto her head like some crazed breakdancer. Actually, I’m relatively confident of this position. I lived out an inner city childhood during which, in the absence of a basketball, standing on your head was viewed as a highly skilled competitive sport. I take up a horizontal position on the mat and suddenly recall with alarm that the days when I could do a shoulder stand were the very same days when a single chair provided adequate space for both of my buttocks. Nevertheless, Ms. Third-Eye-In-The-Back-Of-The-Head is now walking around between the mats, and this may be my only chance to prove myself. "I want all of you to lift your legs and backs smoothly off the mat." I’m primed. "Keep your backs straight." I'm taking a deep breath. "And don’t be afraid to use those arms of yours for support."

And now I’m airborne! Admittedly I have reached this position with all the elegance of a pregnant hippo, but it still feels like a real achievement.

"Try to keep those legs up, that’s right. I know it’s difficult." Ms. Rice-Cake-Ribs has now reached the lady beside me. "Keep on trying!" she enthuses.

"And look at this!" she exclaims as she observes my fine-tuned pose. "It takes a lotta skill to do that!"

I can’t help but beam. I’m receiving so many green looks from the others. Mrs. Cashmore is every bit The Incredible Hulk. It feels like a small victory for mankind in a practice so often dominated by the more graceful sex. "You know," Ms. Lotus-Blossom-Beauty-Queencontinues as she admires my towering frame, "it’s easiest to balance if you have very strong, narrow shoulders . . ."

Why, thank you.

". . . and a very heavy weight on top."

And so I return to the pool with head held high. As if forewarned of my coming, it is now silent and empty. My sun lounger awaits in recumbent splendour. Mrs. Cashmore, I imagine, is cowering somewhere in defeat. I recline, chardonnay in hand, and feign another deep sleep as running footsteps mark the return of my children, their impressionable young minds now crammed with bad fashion sense, their eyeballs seared with indelible afterimages of Hawaiian shirts.

"Dad," they begin, "Mum says that if you’re so athletic . . ."

"Oh? . . . Yesssss? . . ." I have perked up like a beagle.

". . . then you can take us to play tennis this afternoon!"

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Today I’m flowing fluidly into the pose they call "The Triangle." My Pythagoras isn’t all that great, but a short time ago I might have calculated this to be an utterly improbable position. It certainly would have seemed unlikely to me at that first yoga class a couple months ago.

About a week after that laborious struggle, I popped into the local library, hoping to find a few tips and insights into my newfound interest. Little did I realize the sheer volume of literature dedicated to yoga. The mere utterance of the word provoked a long sigh from the librarian, who promptly led me to a distant corner of the room, stacked four shelves high on all sides with publications of every shape and size. There was one of those interactive, hyperactive, super-kilo-mega-automated computer kiosk thingies with a list of thousands of yoga-related websites; there were books on basic yoga, books on the spirituality of yoga, books documenting the past, present and future significance of yoga and its irrelevance to the human genome project, books reviewing the books on yoga and, most probably, books reviewing the books that reviewed the books on yoga. I was surprised there wasn’t a guide map.

Now my body is forming a scalene as I stand on the front lawn in an indigo tracksuit in full view of every single Sunday afternoon dog walker. So what? Perhaps it’s a sign that I’ve lost some of my inhibitions since I began this crippling torture they call yoga. Or maybe I’ve just been eating too many rice cakes. My strength has certainly improved and I’ve even lost some weight. But I have yet to muster up the courage to attend another yoga class. I might be sporting a delightful purple tracksuit. But the thought of a pudgy Scotsman in skimpy Lycra leggings still scares me stiff.

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Scottish freelancer Peter Cashmore continues to enjoy his adventure with yoga – especially his favourite pose: The Couch Potato.
 

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