Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Redefining Yoga Balls
As I recall, I started knitting right around the same time I started yoga-- nine or ten years ago. I have, at times, missed yoga for long stretches (no pun intended--okay, maybe pun intended), like, we're talking maybe a year or more at a time. But when I am following through on my goal of keeping up a steady practice, it makes me really happy. Most of the time.
Yesterday, I was at my knitting group at Hill Country Weavers. This is one of the regular gatherings I partake in to help me keep my sanity since being a writer has that blessing/curse of forced solitude which can sometimes feel wonderful but other times equal isolation of the sort that leads to many a dark thought. I also attend a weekly meditation group. Structure-- it's all about structure.
I am, I think, the youngest member of my knitting group. I mention this because I think, unintentionally, sometimes I'm age-ist in that I suppose that my older knit-mates might think and speak differently than me. So I try to keep my often-filthy mutterings down to a minimum, not wanting to offend these lovely women.
So yesterday, I was surprised and delighted when one of my fellow knitters, with little warning of where she was heading with her story, told the tale of being in a yoga class positioned behind some very pale guy who had on loose shorts and no foundation garment. Thus, during some of the class, he wasn't just posing, he was EX-posing. A lot. To hear her tell it-- and she pointed to a bright pink skein of yarn to illustrate her point-- the guy had just one big ball. And it was, apparently, fluorescent and flamingo-esque.
Which, most unfortunately, recalled for me a class during which I, too, was stuck behind a loosely-pantaloned, commando classmate who, while I was innocently attempting a nice cobra position, revealed to me a pair of yoga balls that I had no interest in utilizing to assist me in stretching mind or body. As I have a particularly troublesome memory, one that won't let go of far too many details, I sometimes still have flashbacks to that fuzzy sack. Which would be a rare unhappy yoga recollection.
Gentlemen? PLEASE. Wear pants to yoga. Or at least underpants.
Thank you very much.
Spike Who Already Has Too Many Bad Images In Her Mind
Posted by Spike Gillespie at 9:06 AM