Sasee Magazine

I sniff my bath towel. “Perfect,” I announce. It was borderline smelly, but I hated to dirty a clean one. Tomorrow was a big day, and a large towel was mandatory. I roll it up, lay it next to my water bottle and set my alarm clock. I would hate to oversleep and be late; after all, it has taken me 45 years to get to this point.

Since I turned 40, there has been a memo parked in my proverbial mental in-basket that says, “Maybe you should take up yoga.” In my twenties, the age-appropriate health thing was aerobics and kick-boxing; in my thirties it was walking and strength training; in my forties, it is Pilates and yoga. I can’t even distinguish whether yoga is something I even want to do or just consider an obligatory “should.” It’s just that once you hit your 40s, you can’t escape from it; its benefits are touted everywhere. For years, this health and fitness “should” has gnawed at my conscience like an unwanted, but persistent, pest. The procrastination was so exhausting that I finally decided to take action – sort of.

For my 40th birthday, I splashed out on the mat – it was at least a start. I brought it home, put it in the back of my closet and forgot about it. It lived there for years. My fitness regime, meanwhile, never strayed beyond my standard walking. All the while, the yoga memo festered in my mental in-basket – albeit at the bottom next to the memo that urged me to wash my shower-curtain liners. At 41, I researched available classes. They didn’t work with my schedule and, once again, I filed the memo away, promising myself that I would “get to it soon.” At 42, I (unsuccessfully) made yoga my New Year’s resolution. By the time I reached 43, I had forgotten where or what color my mat even was.

Everything changed yesterday.

A new yoga studio opened up close to my house and was offering an introductory special. Had it really just been about money? I tried not to think about how cheapskate I was and picked up the phone. I was simultaneously excited and bummed that the class schedule was so convenient and affordable – now I had no excuse. The perky voice at the end of the phone oozed enthusiasm. “You’ll love it,” she squeaked. “Our studio teaches Bikram Yoga,” she explained, “it’s so good for you.” There are many different types of yoga, and Bikram yoga is the one that takes place in a room heated to 105 degrees. The heat and humidity is supposed to make the body more supple and make it easier on the joints, albeit nightmarish on the hair. I signed up; I needed all the help I could get.

I pondered her instructions: Bring a bottle of water and a towel – not a hand towel, but a full-length bath towel. I flinched. How hot could this be if I needed a bath towel instead of a hand towel? “The classes are 90 minutes long,” she added. An imaginary bubble popped in my head. In it, the picture of a short, middle-aged-plus-a-bit woman, with a tuft of frizzy, red hair crawling like a shriveled pink prune out of a steaming room. I feigned enthusiasm. I hadn’t sweated in years; in fact, sweating was something to be avoided at all costs. Undeterred, I agreed to be at the morning class and went in search of my mat. I found it in the back of the closet behind clothes that used to fit. I felt sure it was purple when I bought it; perhaps years of neglect had turned it blue.

The instructor welcomed me and led me into the yoga room. She looked about 12, wore Barbie-doll clothes, and had skin like silk. I consoled myself that at her age, I probably looked like that (in my dreams!) and struggled to ignore all the other svelte, minimally-clad bodies. I was encouraged to see a few other “older” ladies in the class – they must have gotten the same memo as me, I mused. We smiled at each other even though our faces told the real story – what on earth are we doing here? I positioned my mat closer to my baggy-clothed sisters and lay down. So far so good.

The next 90 minutes were a blur of exaggerated breathing, trying to stand on one leg, stretches that hurt and sweating. I have never touched my knees with my head so many times in one day. I tried to “live in the moment” and appreciate my reflection in the unforgiving mirror. It was hard to do because every inch of it glistened like a wet bowling ball, and my legs needed a shave.

I stood, I wobbled, I pushed, I pulled, and then I stretched. One stretch required you to lie face down on your mat. With my nose squashed against my towel, there was no escaping that it clearly belonged in the laundry basket. I ignored the musty damp smell and turned over on to my back. “Quiet your mind; this is your time,” the instructor whispered. I tried to ignore the what-to-cook-for-dinner conversation buzzing in my brain, but it was relentless. “Embrace the sweat,” she continued. I was trying to, but it was running into my eyes. I wiped myself with my smelly towel and after deciding to do pasta, was finally able to relax.

“Namaste” we all chimed. I had made it!

Twenty-four hours later, its cathartic effects linger. My body feels cleansed, my joints more supple, and my mind feels energized. The appeal of a body more toned and flexible dangles like a carrot, and I decide to pick up the phone and book another class. I immediately put on a load of towels and head to the bathroom to shave my legs. It won’t help my balance but it may help my concentration.

I feel calmer already.