Getting Zen at the Senior Center

I have advanced to that age where I am now considered a senior citizen which qualifies me to participate in all the fun activities that the Joyce Raye Patterson Senior Center has to offer. Exciting things like blood pressure screenings, rip-roaring bridge games, line dancing lessons, shuffleboard and yoga classes. Adverse to regular yoga classes with young twenty and thirty somethings where I always pale in comparison I figured that even I, with my sloth-like tendencies, could keep up with the folks in a yoga class designed for the elderly. Boy was I wrong.

My first course of action was to find something to wear. Because as we all know 98% of yoga is finding something ridiculous to wear. Anymore, you can’t find workout pants not made of spandex that completely encase your body so that not a single molecule of air can reach your skin. Seriously, does a person really need vacuum sealed pants to do the downward facing dog? Scuba divers need airtight pants; so do Olympic bobsledders. The rest of us could use some breathing room. So I pilfered through my dresser drawers and made my selection. Due to the condition of my nearly 60 year old thighs I long ago gave up wearing shorts and opted for a pair of brown yoga pants that I bought at Ross for $5.00 which may have had something to do with the fact that, stretched to maximum capacity over my cellulite, they made my legs look like those Brown and Serve Breakfast sausages. Long gone are the days when when I used to get compliments on my legs. Come to think of it, that time in ’81 when someone honked at me because they thought I was attractive is probably still the highlight of my life.

Thirty minutes later I arrived at the Senior Center ready for action. As I unrolled my yoga mat on an empty spot on the floor, I sized up the competition. Most of the other participants were women and appeared to be older than me, Most were regulars who knew each other like the ones next to me, Esther and Judy. “I can hold my own here,” I thought. The only thing I was really worried about was whether or not I could make it a whole hour without having to pee.

As we started our routine our instructor seemed nice enough, a Lululemon clad priestess walking among us giving gentle encouragement like a nurturing earth mother. “Just breathe. Meet your body where it is,” she would say. By the time we were half way through I hated her. I was keeping up until we got to the warrior pose, that forward lunge with your arms out to the sides. Easy enough…for the first minute until my muscles start to burn, legs quivering, skin growing clammy and yoga pants stuck to my legs. That’s when I learned that gravity is a cruel mistress…lean too far in any direction and you might find yourself closer to the ground than you expected.

The highlight of our routine however was the shoulder stand. Once I got into position I couldn’t move thanks to the enormous weight of my thighs in the air above my head and rolls of fat on my stomach cutting off my air supply. And I have to tell you, the view looking up through my legs was so repellent that it comes back to me sporadically even now despite heavy medication. The depression induced by the jellied oatmeal texture of my thighs was indescribable. Our instructor yammered on, “Yoga is great for letting go of those things that no longer serve you,” and that’s when it happened…somebody’s hindquarters ‘exhaled’ if you know what I mean. And the instructor says, “That’s okay, it’s okay to fart. A fart is your body letting go.” I looked over at Judy and we burst into laughter. I thought I was going to choke to death or have a stroke. There was no way I was getting up off the floor now without assistance of some sort.

When class was over, the teacher said something like, “Take a moment to thank yourself for committing to your practice,” which made me intone the prayer, “Please God, make me less fat then I was an hour and a half ago. Amen.”