Maybe “hate” is too strong a word, but I strongly disfavour yoga.
Because I am bad at it.
And it makes me feel bad.
Yoga is one of those things in the unattainable category for me: I tried yoga at many points in the past, but have more or less written it off. I don’t have the time, or the inclination.
I especially don’t have the flexibility.
“Anyone can do yoga!” say people who have never seen me attempt yoga. On the surface, I look yoga-capable: I have the standard number of appendages, I’m a bit overweight but not obese, I’m capable of a full range of motion.
But I am not flexible.
I am inflexible.
I am anti-flexible.
My body has the inverse flexibility required to do yoga.
I hate yoga, and I need to be okay with it.
I tried yoga this morning — again. It was a humiliating half-hour of being reminded of my stretching limits and how absolutely terrible they are.
And I think I need to get to a place where it’s okay to hate yoga. It’s an aspiration I’ve failed at many times and at some point I’ll have to let go of. I don’t intend to, like, swear I’ll never do it — people get into stuff later in life — but I need to not feel bad that I’m bad at yoga.
“And what,” says my stupid internal dialogue, “what if this is just the realization you require in order to free your mind for yoga, grasshopper?”
“Shut up, internal dialogue,” says my external dialogue.
I think most people have a yoga. An aspirational thing you think you should be doing and you think your life would be better if you did. But you can’t. For time reasons, money reasons, family reasons.
You can’t eat all the squirrels. Uncle Rodney said that before he was taken away and we never spoke of him again. I guess yoga is one squirrel I’ll probably never eat, and I have to be fine with that.