Woolly Jumpers and Bare Feet

On Wednesday I bravely attempted a yoga class at the gym. I've not been for ages (either yoga or the gym) and I was a little intimidated on entering the room as half the class were already bare foot and eagerly attempting semi-complex poses. This was seven minutes before the class was even due to start.

The yoga teacher, donned in an expertly hand-knitted blue woolly jumper and black baggy pants did well to put me a ease. I've been putting off going to the gym or any kind of fitness class since I foolishly renewed my membership in August, largely due to worrying about what other people think. What if I don't work out hard enough, will the gym staff see? Will Lando C think my face isn't red enough when I get home? Perhaps I won't lose any weight at all and everyone will think I go to the gym just to sit in the jacuzzi and relax.

Although I love yoga, I normally smirk at the yoghurt-knitting mentality of some of its teachers and followers. However, this guy clearly hadn't overdosed on organic muesli that morning and was making rational observations such as - "to compare yourself to others is an insult to your own intelligence." Yoga isn't about being able to successfully put your right knee behind your left ear or even admiring those that can. Too much fat on your bones or not, it's all about recognising your inner being before your outer being and this takes an entirely new strength most of us don't even realise we have.

I went home feeling two foot taller and fully relaxed, with a rare craving for some herbal tea. Maybe I'll get some muesli tomorrow...