Shoulda Listened to Babushka

I learned a lot in my first two weeks at Krishnamacharya Yoga Mandiram. I learned how to take a pulse. I learned oodles of Sanskrit words. I learned a breathing technique that promotes weight loss. (Relax, ladies, I’ll show you when I get back.)

I also learned that I’m a mess.

My right shoulder is higher than the left. My left leg is stronger than the right. My lower back is feeble and excessively concave; my upper back is a tad too rounded. My breath is shallow.

After years of fretting about the size of my butt, I’m realizing it’s the least of my problems. (I’ve also concluded that my butt is actually smaller than it appears. The concavity of my lower back creates the illusion of a large caboose.)

The worst part is, I’m to blame for my crookedness. I’m warped from years of sitting like a lady, one leg wrapped around the other, and standing like a runway model, hips askew. I’m paying for watching TV on my stomach, shrugging phone receivers to my ear and craning forward at computers. My grandmother, bless her heart, used to nag me about my weighty knapsacks. I was a bookworm and a back-talker. “How do you expect me to get good grades if I don’t bring home my books?” I’d retort. Babushka was right.

My consolation: Most of us are messed up. Some problems are inherited and others, acquired. One of my teachers at KYM has diabetes. Another has asthma. When I look around the classroom, I see bodies fit for magazines. Close inspection reveals kinks. He compensates for tight shoulders by arching his back. She compensates for a weak lower back by puffing out her chest. From a distance, we’re Michelangelos. Up close we’re all Dalis.

The good news is, babushka wasn’t completely right. I won’t end up a hunchback. What I learned in the first two weeks is that I’m fixable. Most of us are.

I’ll stop there, one step short of my yoga soapbox.