Dear Yoga,
I’ve resisted you on a number of occasions. When my hippie basketball coach tried to incorporate your poses into our cool down stretches I, along with my teammates, rolled my eyes at you.
And again, while in rehab (see: knee surgery) the doc told me to recognize my chi. Somehow. So I had a brief stint with you, which unfortunately, didn’t amount to more than a summer fling. A decent fling, but still a fling nonetheless.
You know I love working hard. Pushing through the pain. Feeling like I’m going to vomit. These are some of the greatest sensations a person can experience, but I’ve never felt this way with you. I follow all the recommended techniques: turn your phone off, do it early, clear your mind, etc.
And I feel a bit mislead. I’ve yet to see a photo of you where the yogi wasn’t smiling, or in front of a crystal blue ocean. Where are the photos of the miserable chap who can’t even manage two back-to-back sunrise/warrior/salutation things?
So I’m going to be honest. I really don’t like you—I think you’re full of downward dog. And I have given you more than enough chances to prove me otherwise.
But for the remainder of my commitment to P90X, I’ll be seeing you on a weekly basis. I hope, for both of us, that we can learn to accept eachother.
Out.
