It’s got to the point where I’m telling people about the mikon who is growing inside me. Of course, everyone’s an expert, and the latest piece of advice from my pilates friend is ‘You must come to yoga. It’ll really help you.’ Now I’ve never got on with yoga at all. At best it’s boring, and at worst it’s really competitive. But, I’m trying to do this open mind pregnancy thing, and thought, since I’ve been banned from trapeze, what better thing to do on a Thursday evening before dinner? It’s the old achievement anxiety creeping in again. Now that I’m up the duff, I’m terrified of not being able to things. As a result I’m manically trying to do everything – sanding doors, painting, shifting furniture, gardening, even working. It’s difficult to sleep easy if you haven’t got anything done that day to justify your existence on the planet. I can’t buy into the attitude of some mothers - that bearing and raising children is a duty – ‘someone’s got to do it.’ I’m not contributing to the master race thank you very much. I’m doing this totally selfishly, to serve my own ends, to tick the box marked motherhood. Only please let it be a girl, they’re so much more fun to dress up. Oh yeah, and I suppose there is that continuity of life thing (dead dad = new baby) - as Mr B. said at the scan ‘I’ve had just about as much life and death as I can take.’
So Thursday rolls round, and I’ve made soup for my return, and I have plenty of time and the right money on me. There is no excuse, I have to leave for the community centre. It doesn’t bode well when the first person I see is my neighbour Griselda, the local year round swimming outside witch who gets angry if someone puts a shed in their garden. This is the first person from the street who I have to tell the news, which she is delighted at. Remarkably, she manages even in these circumstances to make a double edged comment on my fertility, ‘Well, it’s about time, I mean you’ve been together how long?’
‘About 10 years’
‘At least 10 years! There’s so many babies in the area I think I’ll have to move!’
The rest of the class comprises the nice pilates friend, an angry lesbian who tells me off for having the wrong mat, and the usual community centre randoms. I don’t appraise the class too randomly, but there are a couple or elderly ladies in leggings, a robust looking young man in cycle shorts, and an antipodean young latecomer named Leah who proves to be very flexible (bitch). They’re all doing strange S&M stretches involving a canvas strap which they tie to various parts of their bodies and pull.
To my horror, the teacher arrives, reminding me of all that is wrong with this quasi-religious exercise. She is English, wears her hair in a long dark low ponytail. She is skinny in a wizened way which makes me think she is younger than she looks, and hersagging tracksuit bottoms are black velour – an interesting variation on the more common faded cotton. It’s hard to make out every word she says since she has that softly spoken quality which is typically accompanied by a slight self-loathing vibe. This is just what you never want to be like. I ask if it’s OK to do the class, given my present condition. She eventually agrees, checking first if there is anything else wrong with me.
As the class progresses, it begins to come back to me. There really isn’t much right with yoga. There’s the yoga people who hate you if you’re too flexible, or if you’re not flexible enough. There’s my response to the competitive vibe, which is to compete, and over extend myself. Why is it that something which brands itself as non-competitive, is probably the most cut throat of activities, where there is even a measure of whether you can relax well enough? Then there’s the aesthetic – that drippy vegan emaciated thing. There’s the fact that my body just isn’t built for this. I live in fear of dislocating everything. This is a very long hour and a half.
The teacher is barely audible, so I have to keep craning round to lip read. This isn’t much help, as rather than telling you where to put your left foot and your right hand, like in twister, she just says, now we’ll do supta padanghasaya followed by pranayama, or something. I find myself wondering who in this class actually knows what she’s talking about.
The final straw, apart from getting chronic cramp in my foot, is at the end of the class. Everyone puts their hands in a prayer position and bows to the teacher and says ‘Namaste’. I just can’t do this. Neither my mind or body will let me, so I sit slightly sheepishly, nod and smile. It’s the best I can do. I won’t be going back.
