By Kerri Havnen Gordon
When my husband sent family pictures to his cousins in the Midwest, I was mortified that one of them was a side shot of me in what I thought was a perfectly cute orange stretchy T-shirt. What I didn’t realize was that from any angle but the front, what you’d notice is my back flab. It was time for corrective measures and perhaps a ceremonial burning of the offending garment.
Stepping up my Rancho hikes did wonders in strengthening my lower body and aerobic fitness but did nothing to address my fleshy back. Nor did it do anything for the upper arms my teenage son likes to jiggle when he wants to tease me.
Then a hiking partner told me about a YMCA yogilates class, which is a cross between yoga and pilates. I noticed, walking behind her on the trail, that if this woman ever had any back flab, it was gone. She assured me that she indeed had some but that the class was taking care of it. I was inspired but reluctant.
You see, I have always been the least flexible gal in the room. During P.E. stretches in school, all the other girls could spread their legs practically to a split and still easily touch their tummies to the floor. I could spread my legs only half as wide and just barely reach my toes with my fingertips.
They say yoga is great because it increases flexibility, but I never imagined there’d be any hope for me. So when a yoga-loving friend invited me to do a yoga DVD with her a few years ago, I halfheartedly agreed. Who cares if I couldn’t stretch or bend or twist with just my friend there to witness my ineptitude?
The DVD featured a bearded, British 50ish Svengali yoga master along with his perky, blond wife who was a good 25 years his junior. Naturally, her figure was the model of perfection. They annoyed me. When they contorted themselves into impossible poses, things only got worse. All I could do was inadequate imitations while glancing at my 40ish flabby frame. Leaving my friend’s house that day, I thanked her for helping me learn that yoga just wasn’t my cup of tea.
The recent yogilates class with my hiking partner was a different story. While setting up my mat in the far back, I noticed that the room was filled with a nice assortment of both flawless figures and, well, people like me. “It’s my first time in a yoga class,” I confessed to the instructor. No worries, she said, as she told me to listen for the modifications she would offer beginners.
For the next 75 minutes, I stretched and held poses until my limbs were shaking. I did “downward dogs” and “extended childs” and who knows what else. Even the modifications were a challenge, but I somehow followed along. I even experienced a few moments of Zen-like bliss.
That night I told my hiking partner that I didn’t think I worked hard enough in the class since I wasn’t sore. But the next day my shoulders and arms were hurting, and I sent her an e-mail with the subject, “Spoke too soon!” The day after that, obscure stomach muscles I never knew I had were complaining. I took this as an encouraging sign.
By next spring I’ll either be able to wear stretchy T-shirts without shame, or I’ll rid my closet of Lycra forever. Until then, there is still hope that yogilates will succeed where hiking never could, because the time has come to banish those back-flab blues.
