Mountain Pose: The Fitful Evolution of a Gen X Yogi or A Grown-Ass Man Gets Over It and goes to Yoga.

I like my bed. I really do. It’s one of those über-fancy king size “As Seen On TV” memory foam numbers that I overpaid for back in the day. I’d sink into it at some godawful hour and sleep like a baby. I could lay there for hours upon waking, grazing on the never-ending digital media trifle on my iPad. If it weren’t for the nagging growl in my stomach and my lackluster culinary skill I’d seldom leave the house. Hatha, Vinyasa, Savasana, were nowhere on my radar.

I got great at wasting time. An unmotivated recent divorcee, under-employed web guy “working” from home. A truly sedentary life. Probably depressed. I wasn’t always this lazy. I lifted weights. I had big dreams.

Not Living My Best Life.

At some point, a random IT recruiter’s call turned into a long-term contract gig. I’d commute to the office, suffer the meetings, hoover the free donuts and coffee, let the belt out a notch, write code, and move Post-it notes from one column to the next. I learned a few new things about software development, made a couple work friends, even had a girlfriend out of the deal for awhile. She was nice. The paycheck was steady. Then it all ended. Back to bed. Not mindfulness practice. No yoga. 

Dating? I couldn’t summon the motivation to wade through the college-town bar scene dregs. The rejects. “The clearance bin of people”, as someone once described them, him, the over 35 college-town singles. All dealing with their own shit. Pathetic in our own special way.

The glint of a local music scene numbed the existential ache sometimes. It was worth the drive down and the tired bar conversations. Once, on a random weeknight, while I choked down the last drops of a bitter miss-ordered cocktail, a dewy-eyed twenty-something told me she was a “LIFE COACH”. Areyoufuckingkiddingme!? The band, soused and well into their third set, stumbled over tired notes. Fuck this. I’m out. 

Not “living-your-best-life” by any stretch of the imagination. Skimming the bottom of the barrel. Wasting time, filtering beer through a tired liver. Dead in a ditch by 53, the thought crossed my mind. Something had to change. I had to find something. I needed something else.

Yoga: A Bunch of Stretching.

I’d taken yoga before, years ago, with the “old lady” when we were “going to get fit”. I was a corporate drone at the time with a contract job in the big city an hour away. The long commute, stress, coffee on repeat, cans of coke, office “treats”, and perpetual lack of sleep found me at my heaviest ever. I had to start moving my body. Otherwise, I’d most certainly mutate into one of those lumpy institutionalized cubicle dwellers who was waiting for their pension to vest.

The community center’s Hatha Yoga for Beginners picked from the Continuing Ed catalog seemed like an A-OK choice. Taught by an aging yogini bearing pedigree, a “bunch of stretching” would do this barrel-chested, 6’3” bear, of a grown-ass man some good. Bolsters, blocks, blankets, straps, asanas, oms, mindfulness, namastes? Whatever. It was good to do something other than plop down in front of the TV after work. Too many years of that. We showed up for most of the classes in the series. Twice a week for 12 weeks. I got more limber. I got stronger. I slept better. I felt better. Unfortunately, the habit didn’t last. Neither did my cozy long-term coupling.

Evolving Appreciation.

Years of sedentary solitude later, a new love interest talked me into a yoga class. Something to do together, a good bonding activity, I thought, if nothing else.

My first time at a real yoga studio. It’s packed. Gold walls. Giant buddha painting. A guy teacher, mid-forties, older. Curious. He’s kind of a contented new-age spiritual hipster minus the beard. Tattoos, mala beads, hemp clothes and what not. He biked to class. Has a good vibe. I generally like what he’s saying and how he’s saying it. Guiding a roomful of mostly women, and this oversized mammal, with our mats inches from each other, into and out of semi-familiar poses. “Try this”, then “if it’s available to you”, this. “If you need more”, this. “What does your body need?”. “Stop at any point”. “This is full expression”. He’s inviting us to “do less” wherever we find ourselves in these asanas. 

I’m working hard. Moving Deliberately. Losing balance. Sweating. Finding balance. Breathe in. Tuck your tailbone. Reach toward the sky. “Extend through the crown of your head”. Arms parallel. Shoulders down. Micro-bend the knees. Forward fold. Breathe out. Mmmm. Breathe in. Extend. Forward fold. Step back. Plank. Downward dog. “One breath. One movement”. More Sweat. “Child’s pose is always available to you”. Savasana. Lying on the hard ground never felt so good. Namaste.

He’s a hell of a teacher. Gentle quasi-philosophical mysticism and all, I like how I feel afterward. Upright. Mellow. Grounded. Present. I work hard to not make a fool of myself in front of her. Maybe it’s all the deep breathing, or maybe it’s just the first exercise of any kind that I’ve had in many months but my scattered thoughts abate after each session. This was a good idea. I end up going to his classes multiple time. I go on my own after the relationship fizzled. It was good each time. I felt good each time. I stopped going eventually anyway.

The Practice: Begin Again.

A year later, the winter was spectacularly frigid. A record-setting, piercing cold that ground the town to a halt. The furnace ran damn-near-non-stop, while the timbers of my apartment creaked and groaned like a horror movie. Frostbite marked exposed skin in minutes should you be unfortunate enough to suffer outside. My car would barely turn over, but had to be started daily before the arctic air could leach the life out of the battery. So, I’d dutifully don my warmest attire and trudge outside. I’d pry the door open, and crank it. I’d let her run for a while. I had nowhere to go. It got warmer than the house and I could get internet from the driver’s seat. 

Tired of shivering, and to maintain my sanity, I decided to find a yoga class again. I needed to thaw my bones and move clenched muscle and tendon. One forgets how the body can shrink into itself attempting to preserve heat. 

Thank god for yoga studios that schedule teachers throughout the day. I could make the 11AM whatever yoga class today. The 1:30PM something else class Wednesday. The 6PM Monday session. The 7:15 Thursday. So I went. Three days a week. I kept going. I bought a good yoga mat when the cheap one just didn’t hold my grip anymore. Just to get through this damned winter, I told myself. This yoga shit is hard.

Hatha? Vinyasa flow? Pranayama? Chataranga Dandasana? Half-moon? Crow? Arda-what-the-hell-asana? I couldn’t get my lumbering bulk into half of these poses. I could barely hold my balance. These tiny yoga babes flit through these sequences while I sweat like an old draft horse. They’re fucking strong and limber. Most impressive though were the older yogis. Such poise and tremendous strength. Inspiring. Damn. Kicking my ass in yoga pants. One breath, one asana? Yeah right. Savasana. Namaste!

It’s not a competition, I tell myself. Just show up. You’ll get stronger. Your body will get more cooperative. Your breathing eventually goes from freight train tempo to a slower steadier rhythm. You start to see improvement. This is a positive development. You’ll make it through the winter.

Now, recognized by the regulars you exchange hellos, but it’s an inward practice, just you and the mat. Some days you can move through the sequence of asanas with relative ease, other days you just can’t. No matter. You realize no one gives a shit how “good” you are or aren’t today. They’re going through their own shit, dealing with their physical, mental, and emotional limitations. It’s not about force. It’s about grace. It’s about balance. It’s about letting go. Trying. Failing. Surprising yourself. That’s the practice.

A Deeper Appreciation.

Your mood steadily improves when you move your body, intentionally, on a regular basis. Your brain likes this habit. Your thoughts become clearer. You make generally better choices throughout your day so you can be prepared for yoga. You have to adjust your driving position and the rearview mirror because you’re not hunching forward anymore. You begin to move more gracefully. You start noticing deep thoughts surface when your mind is still. In Savasana, the final repose at the end of class, or in some deep, vulnerable long- pose, like Pigeon, you might glimpse thoughts you’ve misplaced. I’ve seen tears shed. I’ve experienced quiet epiphanies. It’s good. Damn.

People started to notice that I carried myself differently. Eventually, I confessed that I’d been doing yoga three days a week for a few months. My brother didn’t think much of it – told me I should go back to lifting – reminisced how he used to leg press 750 pounds for reps back in the day. My buddies didn’t care, they wanted to hit the bar. Whatever, it’s about me taking care of myself for a change. 

I’d talk to anyone about the practice if they showed interest. Hell, that’s how I somehow ended up dating a yoga teacher for a little while. We met through the music scene. I think she appreciated my new found enthusiasm for the practice and, by extension, her lifestyle. We went to some intense classes together and a yoga festival. You won’t catch me taking daily pose yoga snaps for my throng of Instagram followers though. That part of it threw me. Good gal though.

The Reluctant Yogi.

Yoga – an ancient physical, mental, and spiritual practice from India. A yogi – someone who practices yoga. I guess that makes me a yogi even if I don’t fit the stereotype, know the Sanskrit names of the majority of poses, or haven’t a clue as to the deeper philosophy. I’m still working on full expression in most of the asanas I’ve encountered. I hit a hell of a downward dog though. I sometimes get lost. No matter. I get better over time. I learn more from each teacher. I’m an eternal student. I don’t ever regret going (unless we’re told “flow on your own” ’cause that’s bullshit).

I’ve come to realize that the women in my life introduced me to yoga, and led me further down this path. The partners, friends, and teachers. For that, I am truly grateful to each of them.

Now, more than 10 years of intermittent yoga below my belt, I find myself with an amazing woman, in a big city, finishing up a solid month of daily yoga practice. She signed us up. I was in yet another lull. I feel strong. I feel happy. I’ve developed new insights into Chaturanga. My shoulders hurt a little but they’re getting wider. My belly is shrinking. I think I might finally be getting somewhere. No matter what, I aim to keep my yoga practice alive, even if it’s a lifetime of fits and starts.