I used to be pretty neurotic. College applications, SAT’s, high school drama, and the art of surviving teenage-dom all put me under a lot of stress. My early-onset forehead wrinkles are proof of the amount of time I spent worrying about the difference between an A and an A-. As I often vented my angst to my friends and family, a select few would give me the same tip: you should try yoga, or meditating! As someone who firmly believed the yogi stereotype of granola munching, super healthy, pretentious bohos, I usually ignored this advice. There was no way a rubber mat could magically make my problems go away. Sitting in a burning hot room, sweating out all the liquid in my body, while contorting my limbs in positions that should only be legal in Cirque-Du-Soleil did NOT seem very relaxing at all. But, in accordance with the “close-minded girl who finally opens her eyes” trope, my opinion began to soften.
During senior year I took a class on nonviolent protest history, which included the occasional meditation led by the instructor. Although I consistently felt her slow and calming voice lulling me to a much needed nap, I began to think that maybe the “Zen life” could be for me. I already owned yoga pants, and that was at least half of it right? At the risk of being subjected to many I-told-you-so’s, I began dipping my toes into the calm and tranquil pool of downward dogs and becoming one with my breath. Muscles that I didn’t even know I had were sorer than after running the eight-minute mile in gym. I became painfully aware of my lack of flexibility. How on earth could my breathing “create space?” Where was the “tension flowing out” supposed to go exactly? It became pretty clear that the logic with which I governed every aspect of my life was simply not applicable in the 40 minutes I spent on the mat. Despite occasional laughs and bruises from toppling over, I (nama)stayed with my practice, and my life transformed before me. I started eating kale chips and yogurt. Salads started to taste less like cardboard. Chamomile tea became a regular participant in my nightly routine. I understood the allure of Trader Joes, and could finally justify buying athletic tights. The Art of Mindfulness permeated every aspect of my life.
So I’d like to apologize to the yogis out there for my ignorance. Touching my toes feels like the accomplishment of the year. I no longer feel stupid when curling up into an acrobatic ball of limbs. And most importantly, it makes me happy. The monotone instructor voice is now as comforting to me as a mother to her newborn. I love my roommate walking in on me lying on the ground meditating to ambient atonal music. I love the entire subset of yoga-type gifts on Etsy (who wouldn’t want some yoga stickers?). Most of all, I love that I get to be one of those pretentious bohos telling my stressed out friends that they should “just try yoga.”
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