The Peach is a Bitch
I stared at the woman on the mat in front of me. She stood on her head and elbows and had her eyes closed. As if it were relaxing if the blood flows backwards towards the floor.
Where the hell did I get into? Into the YOGA CLASS for advanced students. I could just about do the, for me from exertion drooling, downward facing dog yoga pose. No matter how many time times I´ve done this in my life, my dog was a Pavlosher.
That wasn´t in the plan! I thought it was for beginners?! I didn´t want to go to Nirvana or wherever. I just wanted to turn my square-booty into a peach-booty. Everything what was fast, displeased me. But this …
Suddenly I felt hands in my sweaty neck. The trainer had WickVapoRub or so on her fingers and rubbed it over my hairline at the back as I was standing in the bridge pose and acted like it was normal. Not irritating at all, that some stranger stroke my sweaty neck.
I remembered, that at the start of the course the yoga trainer asked if someone didn´t like to get touched. I thought, she would only correct wrong positions. Someone like me, who was out of practice, liked to turn the proud warrior pose into a uncoordinated Pretzel pose. But I didn´t expect to get caressed. Thank God I had showered beforehand.
It was unusual for me to shower … at least at home. I bought myself a subscription where I go to a thermal bath twice a week. As a Swabian I was very proud because I saved hot water costs. I deliberately ignored the entrance fees here. I swam 50 laps. Yes, 50 laps. My therapist couldn´t believe it either and asked me directly if I swam in the children´s pool. When therapist made jokes like that, it meant that therapy was almost complete and you were stable enough for “jokes”. So it was more of a compliment. At least that´s what I tried to tell myself. But no, I didn´t do my laps in the kiddoes’ pee pool, but in the salt water with the adults.
Even pensioners. I ambitiously got myself an intimidating swim wardrobe. Professional swimming goggles, a professional cap and a professional swimsuit. The goggles squeezed my plump cheeks so much that the corners of my mouth drooped. As if I were permanently unsatisfied. Such a swimming bitch face could come in handy. So mostly undisturbed, I swam my tracks. Taciturn and focused on counting my tracks.
I was so convincing that I was reprimanded by the lifeguard.
And disgustingly friendly and compliant.
“You, this is not for competitive swimmers!” she said from the edge of the pool. I would have laughed out loud if my stuck google hadn´t stopped me. So I stood there like an UFO: “Me? Comp- .. uh?”
“Ha yes! You swim too fast here. Actually, the maximum here is granny swimming.!”
Aha. But what if you´re young and you´re chasing a peach?
Oh well. I assured her of a moderate swim pace and promised not to cut older swimmers to regain my lane. Like I said, I´m DISGUSTINGLY friendly and compliant.
Speaking of compliant. My body is too – compliant and flexible. God´s best joke and always amazing to me. At the advanced course there was a well-trained male yogi on the mat in front of me too who turned into an electric eel at the attempt of trying to touch his toes.
“No false ambition”, whispered the yoga teacher and stroke him Wick in his neck. My mother always told me that WickVapoRub works against everything. Why are mothers always right?
We reached the end of the yoga class. I laid there like after a marathon. What am I doing t myself? If I make it back home, I would make myself a FAT fruit salad.
Peaches for motivation! Let‘s all sing an ‚A-SHAN-TI‘ on that. All together. AAAAAAA-SHAAAANNNNNNNTIIIIIIII.
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