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PrintFinale: Compromising positions
Illustration by Mario Noche
There are plenty of opportunities for humiliation in a yoga class. Since I’ve been practicing off and on for 12 years, I’ve encountered quite a few of them.
The embarrassments were relatively minor when I started during a physical education class at Ohio State: not having the right clothes, forgetting my right from my left, having the balance of a 3-year-old who just lurched off a Tilt-a-Whirl. As the years passed, I’ve tried studios around Columbus, such as Alphastate and Yoga on High, and there’s definitely been an increase in the occasions for mortification. For example, I’ve made inadvertent eye contact with the person behind me as we did a wide-legged forward bend; I got myself stuck in a particularly challenging hip-opener that required me to be pried back up by an instructor; I’ve fallen while looking like the figure skater who pulls one leg over her head while spinning on the other (except all I was trying to do was stay firmly planted in one place).
But I love yoga. You’re encouraged to sit, breathe and turn your brain off for a few minutes, and it teaches you that it’s OK to be in an uncomfortable position if you just relax. This works in yoga class and in real life (an especially useful technique when dealing with bosses who eerily remind you of Lord Voldemort).
And then there’s nap time. Well, you’re not supposed to fall asleep, but at the end of class, when you are all tuckered out, they turn off the lights and let you rest on your mat. Recently, I woke up both myself and the man next to me when I started to snore.
My worst moment, however, happened just recently. And I blame my fiancé. After a year or so without yoga, my upper arms had once again reached their natural marshmallowlike state. I suggested to the fiancé that we should sign up for beginner’s yoga classes so he could learn while I brushed up without hurting myself.
After months of dutiful yoga attendance, he was invited to a Jimmy Buffett concert in Cincinnati. As he drank margaritas two hours south, I unrolled my solo yoga mat at the studio. Then the instructor announced what I didn’t want to hear: “This next one requires a partner.”
We’d been working on headstands and handstands, so I assumed we’d just have someone spotting us. I watched with slowly dawning horror as the instructor demonstrated what I would soon be doing with someone who wasn’t my fiancé. She was straddling this person’s head.
“Now, ya’ll partner up,” she cheerfully ordered. I looked around the room. Most of the class already seemed to be in couples. The only person left in my vicinity was a very nice looking person, but a stranger. A male stranger. We looked at each other. I saw his Adam’s apple trem-ble slightly. “Um, you want to go first?” I asked, suppressing hysteria. His pause was lengthy, but eventually he nodded.
He knelt down on his mat and braced his hands on the floor. I was on my back and placed my feet on his shoulders. My partner slowly straightened his legs and began to walk forward, pushing himself closer to me and stretching his calves. I, in turn, resisted his advance with all my might. The pose looked as if I had just given birth to a very embarrassed fully grown man. The instructor told us to release our feet and my partner managed to keep upright after I scurried away.
“OK, now switch,” the yoga master instructed. I knelt down without making eye contact and concentrated on the pose, trying not to think about the relative position of my face to his naughty bits. When he let go with his feet, I realized I’d pushed myself beyond my ability to balance properly. I fell over. And yes, I landed in a pretty compromising position.
On the drive home I was so distracted by what had happened I almost turned the wrong way on Summit Street and had to swerve back into my lane. After my heart stopped pounding, I realized that Sublime’s “Wrong Way” was playing on the radio. The universe certainly has a peculiar sense of humor sometimes.
Despite all the embarrassment, I headed back to class the following week. Although there is one problem: It’ll be difficult to explain to my fiancé why the word “partner” now makes me blush.
Christie Robb is a freelance writer.
