YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS 1: MERCY ON THE MAT
BY DELL FRANKLIN
At age 72, I am being forced into yoga long after I’d made fun of it and mocked its culture and what I deemed false spiritualism for those desperate enough to stuff anything into the emptiness of their unsatisfied lives. Year’s back, at the gym I once belonged to, yoga was hugely popular, and consisted mostly of women of all ages enthralled with lissome-legged young lady instructors with rippling gluteus’s who could change their lives. At this time I published a monthly 24 page literary journal and introduced a column by one Mahoud Mahoud that was titled, “A View from the Stationary Bike,” and one of Mahoud’s favorite targets for comical derision was the parade of increasingly serene women padding to and from the yoga room, mats under arms.
I was so wickedly smart-alecky, and after none of the female instructors would give me an interview and seemed to snub me as if I was a plague, Mahoud accused yoga of not being from India, but instead a derivative of the primal scream created in Malibu by sexy movie star Dyan Cannon. Mahoud--as the months slipped by before the economy expired the journal--was accused of being a sexist, misogynist, chauvinist, creep, predator, and eventually the bike I pedaled was moved to an area as far from the yoga room as possible, a sort of Siberia.
Anyway, a decade later, on my blog, I resumed the “view from the stationary bike,” column under my own name, and since yoga was no longer in the gym, I began mocking members and pretty much swinging wild as I compared notes of observation with my riding mate, Walt, a 74 year old ex court reporter, ardent gossip and arsenal of snide information on almost every member, and reported it as acridly as possible, feeling no member of this gym would ever suspect me of taking notes on my crossword and watching their every move while listening in on their every conversation.
Well, I got in trouble with the women, (one of whom somehow got wind of my blog), and soon there was an insurrection, and I was again accused of being a sexist, misogynist, chauvinist, creep, as well as a “Monster.”. The general manager, a woman who patrolled the gym in an aggressive goose-step stride, called and informed me members had quit in defiance of my presence and fear of threatening them as I sat on my bike. Others insisted I be terminated, even if I changed names and wrote these pieces in the spirit of creative journalism. So, eventually, I terminated myself after a 22 year membership and was faced with trying to stuff something into the emptiness of my unsatisfactory life at around 10 in the morning Monday, Wednesday and Friday—mornings I didn’t play tennis and rode the stationary bike beside Walt, who was also unaware of my blog.
Well, I was sick of the exercise bike and had come to hate it as its punishment began to wear me down physically and mentally. I had become a robot unable to break out of my rut. In the past, I reviled yoga, and especially when in the company of my tennis partner, Ethan, who along with his wife, Contessa, has practiced yoga for decades and contort themselves into pretzels and have attended yoga retreats far and wide.
In fact, one Saturday morning, when the courts were wet, and we had to wait for them to dry off, Ethan challenged me to join him at yoga, and since I had nothing else to do, I followed him into the hallowed yoga studio where, among several other yoga fanatics who came with their own mats, I was introduced to Gloria, local yoga guru, who smiled and welcomed me and advised me NOT to try and complete the really difficult poses, because this was a fairly advanced class.
Right off I was disoriented and spent the time becoming confused as the instructor protruded one leg and I protruded the wrong leg. At first, the poses were simple and easy, but still, I felt myself quivering and aching, and sweating profusely. Soon, the poses—warrior, etc—became grueling, brutal, excruciating—but I tried to hang, and found myself moaning and drooling like a dog being tortured by a cruel master. Beside me, Ethan and Contessa were squatting while balanced on only their toes, legs coiled into bodies, like something you’d see at a freak show at a country fair. I fell on my ass in a state of utter collapse, defeated, panting, drool spilling, sweat popping out of my forehead…I was slaughtered, drained, humiliated…
Mercifully it ended. I was embarrassed at rolling up the soggy mat as the sweet and understanding guru instructor, who had repeatedly helped me, claimed, “You did very well for a first time, and at your age! But I think you might try beginner’s yoga, Dell. Stay with it! It will help you immensely. You were wonderful!”
I felt she was bullshitting me, conning me like any ordinary business person for future membership money, but what I eventually realized is that yoga people are merciful, helpful, spiritual, and not obsessed with greed and aggressive competition. Ahhh, they don’t make fun of people. They won’t even make fun of a person like me, pretty much a clown all his life who makes it a policy to make fun of everybody.
So I’m taking up yoga at the yoga studio in in a neighboring coastal town, as a beginner. Ethan says it will salvage my right hip, which doctors have tried to convince me needs replacing, and I can continue to play tennis without limping around like a dog with only three legs.
Stayed tuned.
At age 72, I am being forced into yoga long after I’d made fun of it and mocked its culture and what I deemed false spiritualism for those desperate enough to stuff anything into the emptiness of their unsatisfied lives. Year’s back, at the gym I once belonged to, yoga was hugely popular, and consisted mostly of women of all ages enthralled with lissome-legged young lady instructors with rippling gluteus’s who could change their lives. At this time I published a monthly 24 page literary journal and introduced a column by one Mahoud Mahoud that was titled, “A View from the Stationary Bike,” and one of Mahoud’s favorite targets for comical derision was the parade of increasingly serene women padding to and from the yoga room, mats under arms.
I was so wickedly smart-alecky, and after none of the female instructors would give me an interview and seemed to snub me as if I was a plague, Mahoud accused yoga of not being from India, but instead a derivative of the primal scream created in Malibu by sexy movie star Dyan Cannon. Mahoud--as the months slipped by before the economy expired the journal--was accused of being a sexist, misogynist, chauvinist, creep, predator, and eventually the bike I pedaled was moved to an area as far from the yoga room as possible, a sort of Siberia.
Anyway, a decade later, on my blog, I resumed the “view from the stationary bike,” column under my own name, and since yoga was no longer in the gym, I began mocking members and pretty much swinging wild as I compared notes of observation with my riding mate, Walt, a 74 year old ex court reporter, ardent gossip and arsenal of snide information on almost every member, and reported it as acridly as possible, feeling no member of this gym would ever suspect me of taking notes on my crossword and watching their every move while listening in on their every conversation.
Well, I got in trouble with the women, (one of whom somehow got wind of my blog), and soon there was an insurrection, and I was again accused of being a sexist, misogynist, chauvinist, creep, as well as a “Monster.”. The general manager, a woman who patrolled the gym in an aggressive goose-step stride, called and informed me members had quit in defiance of my presence and fear of threatening them as I sat on my bike. Others insisted I be terminated, even if I changed names and wrote these pieces in the spirit of creative journalism. So, eventually, I terminated myself after a 22 year membership and was faced with trying to stuff something into the emptiness of my unsatisfactory life at around 10 in the morning Monday, Wednesday and Friday—mornings I didn’t play tennis and rode the stationary bike beside Walt, who was also unaware of my blog.
Well, I was sick of the exercise bike and had come to hate it as its punishment began to wear me down physically and mentally. I had become a robot unable to break out of my rut. In the past, I reviled yoga, and especially when in the company of my tennis partner, Ethan, who along with his wife, Contessa, has practiced yoga for decades and contort themselves into pretzels and have attended yoga retreats far and wide.
In fact, one Saturday morning, when the courts were wet, and we had to wait for them to dry off, Ethan challenged me to join him at yoga, and since I had nothing else to do, I followed him into the hallowed yoga studio where, among several other yoga fanatics who came with their own mats, I was introduced to Gloria, local yoga guru, who smiled and welcomed me and advised me NOT to try and complete the really difficult poses, because this was a fairly advanced class.
Right off I was disoriented and spent the time becoming confused as the instructor protruded one leg and I protruded the wrong leg. At first, the poses were simple and easy, but still, I felt myself quivering and aching, and sweating profusely. Soon, the poses—warrior, etc—became grueling, brutal, excruciating—but I tried to hang, and found myself moaning and drooling like a dog being tortured by a cruel master. Beside me, Ethan and Contessa were squatting while balanced on only their toes, legs coiled into bodies, like something you’d see at a freak show at a country fair. I fell on my ass in a state of utter collapse, defeated, panting, drool spilling, sweat popping out of my forehead…I was slaughtered, drained, humiliated…
Mercifully it ended. I was embarrassed at rolling up the soggy mat as the sweet and understanding guru instructor, who had repeatedly helped me, claimed, “You did very well for a first time, and at your age! But I think you might try beginner’s yoga, Dell. Stay with it! It will help you immensely. You were wonderful!”
I felt she was bullshitting me, conning me like any ordinary business person for future membership money, but what I eventually realized is that yoga people are merciful, helpful, spiritual, and not obsessed with greed and aggressive competition. Ahhh, they don’t make fun of people. They won’t even make fun of a person like me, pretty much a clown all his life who makes it a policy to make fun of everybody.
So I’m taking up yoga at the yoga studio in in a neighboring coastal town, as a beginner. Ethan says it will salvage my right hip, which doctors have tried to convince me needs replacing, and I can continue to play tennis without limping around like a dog with only three legs.
Stayed tuned.
