"Princess Grace" attempts yoga

I once read an article in which Jennifer Aniston credited yoga for the remarkably toned body she presented on the cover of “GQ” – the cover in which she’s covered in nothing but a man’s tie. I would have guzzled Smartwater or bathed in seaweed-infused Aveeno lotion if she had attributed those abs to either product. Either would have been preferable. Yoga, however, is not fun.

The goal

I seem to have a selective memory when it comes to yoga. Before class, I remember only Aniston’s abs. It’s not until sweat is blinding my eyes, my muscles are quivering uncontrollably to maintain a plank and I’m begging the hands of the clock to advance that I recall just how not fun this activity is and vowing never to subject myself to such torture again.

Beyond the “fun factor,” my aversion to pigeon poses and peacock postures is two-fold:

1. I’m hopelessly inept at meditation and…
2. I don’t possess a molecule of coordination, balance or flexibility in my entire body.

Let’s begin with the first, my ineptitude at meditation. My mind is forever leaping from topic to topic, flatly refusing to settle on any specific one. “Wow, that girl has gorgeous layers in her hair.” “Please God, don’t let this overzealous yogi fall on me.” “Crap. Once again, my razor missed that freakishly long ankle hair.” These are real, paramount concerns that have occupied my brain during yoga class. The Buddhists have an official name for such insanity, “Monkey Mind.”

As for coordination, balance and flexibility, the Winslow family’s share of these gifts was exhausted on my sister, the gymnast. In fact, my parents liked to refer to childhood me as “Princess Grace” to emphasize just how ungraceful I was. I’m still lanky and awkward and cannot for the life of me reach my toes or split beyond a 30-degree angle. Years of playing soccer have demonstrated my propensity to simply lurch over when challenged with the ball, a defense mechanism that might be tied to the weight of my notoriously large head; like a reverse roly poly toy, I topple head-first.

Yet, despite all these personal defects, I’m willing to give yoga a go. I joined this gym, so gosh darnnit, I will take advantage of my membership even if “Crazed Monkey” pose kills me. Lately, my poison of choice is Vinyasa, a yoga discipline with an undeniably impressive-sounding name whose meaning completely eludes me.

Edwina, the Vinyasa instructor, fits the typical yoga instructor stereotype: willowy with a hank of long, blonde, kinky surfer girl hair gathered loosely behind her head. She has sleepy Greta Garbo eyes, but her delivery is undeniably perky; She smiles through every instruction, a kindergarten teacher’s grin in her voice.

“Be the observer or the witness and forget the judge.”

Edwina has a habit of saying crazy things like that, nonsensical utterances that furrow my brow and monopolize my Monkey Mind as I struggle to understand just what the heck she means. As it is, I have trouble enough associating the correct pose with whatever tongue-twister name she flawlessly rolls off her tongue. The exception is the forward bend, the one called “Uttanasana.” I typically remember that one because it sounds like “puttanesca” when Edwina says it and never fails to make me hungry.

The reality (about to topple over)

If the other students share my general confusion, they don’t let on. I closely observe them through straddled legs or under an armpit so as to position my appendages accordingly.

Invariably, there’s one student who manages to wrap her legs around her head and balance on her nose. For awhile, that distinction belonged to a 50-year-old woman with slate-gray hair. Her favorite trick involved standing on one leg and folding the other until she could grasp her big toe. Then she would straighten the folded leg until its foot reached her head. Lately the class show-off is a 30-something dude whose yoga wardrobe consists of breezy drawstring pants and a sizeable wood medallion necklace. He’s Caucasian but has the tight-cropped hair and the mental concentration of a Buddhist monk. He bends and splits like no man should be able to bend and split. Naturally, I hate him.

“Take a rounded breath to honor your devotional.”

Someone in Edwina’s class takes all this breathing stuff a tad too seriously; his haggard, Darth Vader gasps drown out the rhythmic exhalations of all the other students, the gentle background music – even the rumble of semi tractor trailers buzzing past the studio window. I must know who’s responsible for that cacophonous clamor, and so instead of honoring my devotional, I crane my neck every which way in a vain effort to pinpoint the source. I’ve narrowed down the suspects to Red Bandana Man and Shirtless Man-Boobs Guy, the sweaty specimen who brandishes his butt crack with every Parivrtta Anjaneyasana, or “Revolved Lunge.”

Is yoga-ing shirtless socially acceptable? I wouldn’t know. I’m still completely baffled by female yoga attire and the correct combination of yoga pants and undergarments. So far, all signs point to “thong,” but I refuse to exercise in butt floss. The alternative is granny panties, but I can’t wear granny panties without everyone knowing I’m wearing granny panties (damn underwear lines). For a while, I obstinately stuck to my reliable soccer shorts, but that wardrobe choice required exposure of my blindingly white thighs whenever I raised my legs into the air and a commitment to regular leg shaving I’m just not prepared to make.

The solution, I’ve discovered, is strategic selection of the yoga studio floor. My preferred real estate is in the very back of the room where no one can observe how my underwear carves my butt cheeks into four equal pie pieces. If I’m lucky, I manage to squeeze into the far back corner, ideal for ping ponging off the walls whenever Edwina wants us to balance on one foot and I wobble back and forth like a drunk flamingo. This past Tuesday, she suggested we use the wall to improve the angle of our standing splits. At the time, I happened to be Downward Dogging it beside a window and when I thrust my left leg into the air, I narrowly avoided shattering the glass. Luckily, my big toe caught the window ledge on the way down, and I hung there until Edwina spoke again.

“Imagine: Your connective tissues are lubricated and happy.”

Huh?

My connective tissues collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Admittedly, there are a few parts of Vinyasa class I do like. I enjoy Edwina’s selection of Indie Rock, enough to surreptitiously “Shazam” a song with my iPhone once her back is turned (here's the strangely titled "Friends Make Garbage (Good Friends Take It Out)," by Low Roar. It's ethereal.) My favorite yoga position is Shavasana, which loosely translates to “Corpse Pose” and involves the incredibly technical act of lying flat on one’s back for up to 10 minutes at a time. Surely with hard work and dedication I’ll Shavasana my way to my own set of six-pack abs. At least that’s what Jennifer Aniston promised me.