We stretch. We balance. We breathe deeply. I am calm – no, serene actually.
Maybe a bit smug.
“You are so good at this,” whispers the teacher, smiling at me kindly.
She’s right, I am good. But then it’s all relative – everyone else in my yoga class is 65. At least…
So here’s the situation: I love doing yoga with old people, to the extent that I give up every Friday night to spend two hours in Tree Pose with about 20 pensioners.
While friends rush to weekend starter drinks and boozy dinners, I pack up my sad pink yoga mat, pull on saggy-bum leggings and head to Brentford Leisure Centre for the most peaceful part of my week: old lady yoga.
The poses aren’t hard. No one forces you to do twelve movements a minute in ridiculous heat. It’s just a bit of stretching – a hand here, lifting a foot there and then meditating (at which point we all put on our jumpers, for fear of catching a chill).
I know what you’re thinking: WHY? Or maybe WEIRDO…
But listen, hasn’t yoga at mainstream fancy studios reached peak showiness? Hasn’t it become too much of a ‘wellth’ statement. There’s the competitive dressing, stretching, balancing… In what way is that relaxing? I slightly don’t want to go somewhere outside of work where it’s a passive aggressive race to be the best.
So none of that for me – I’d rather do geriatric yoga. Because I am the best (and the teacher always tells me so).