Yoga Prose II: A Hoop-Dee-Doo!

A revealing exposé of my secret grad school romance with a hoop:

I am a yoga experimentalist. Or perhaps merely the subject of a greater mega-yoga conspiracy, designed explicitly to stretch my tendons and my temperament in various hypothetically-possible ways. It’s okay. You needn’t worry. Yoga and I have a history.

It began at a weekend synchronized swimming meet in the late eighties, when, as a virgin yoga-attemptee, I worried that I might be doing something dangerously evil by lying on my back and thinking about my breathing when I should have been in church. My spirit emerged intact, however, until my next wobbly attempt, a decade and a half later, in the much safer environs of my local gym. I’ve tried power yoga, yoga fit, hatha yoga, and, in a more audacious experiment, Tai Chi (which I realize is not yoga at all, but I include to convince you of the scope of my yoga-quest). I like to think I have become rather good at it. I can twist myself in all sorts of unprecedented directions. I am beginning to think that Yoga and I are becoming too familiar with each other.

It was with a sort of giddy delight, therefore, that I discovered Hoop Yoga. “What can it be?” I wondered. “What does one do?” I rubbed my palms together in greedy anticipation. There’s nothing I like better than an adventure.

I planned carefully. I set my alarm so I’d have plenty of time to get ready. I ate a sensible meal. I didn’t need to rush. I had plenty of time. Therefore I was late.

I have a talent for tardiness. I didn’t inherit it. I don’t know how exactly I acquired it, but there it is. I can find a way to be late for anything, without excuse, simply because Time is always running against me. Or maybe because the rest of the world is always running so infuriatingly early. I don’t know. All I know is that I had been anticipating my Hoop Yoga class for fourteen hours since I learned of its existence, and I still squeaked in five minutes late. Theoretically I suppose I could blame it on traffic lights, bad hair, parking quandaries, and the three minutes I spent walking in concentric circles through the same hallway trying to find the invisible door to the studio. Instead I choose to blame Time itself. I am merely a casualty. And I’m okay with that. So is Yoga. We have a history.

So, having located the invisible entrance, I strode brazenly into the class, seated myself on a mat in the back corner, surrounded myself with my circular prop, and noted that stretching near a hula hoop, but without actually making contact with the hula hoop, is a dull business. Easy, yes. Inconspicuous, yes. Adventurous? No. Yoga, you are teasing me.

Then we stood to do a hoop-assisted tree pose. Okay, Yoga. Now we’re talking. Still dull. Still easy. But at least we’ve made first contact. Take me to your leader.

We turned our hoops like steering wheels. We moved them high and low, left and right, front and back. We put them around our waists and gently massaged our backs with them. Very relaxing. Therapeutic. Comforting.

“And now, just release it gently and let it spin,” breathed the instructor. Everyone released their hoops and let them spin. I released my hoop and let it fall. Gravity tends to have that effect in my universe.

“That’s okay,” I thought. “The girl beside me dropped her hoop, too.” She dropped her hoop three more times. I dropped my hoop forty-two more times. She released her hoop and let it spin. I released my hoop and let it fall. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

You might be thinking that this battle with Gravity would be inclining me towards a state of frustration, or, worse, humiliation. Nothing doing. Like I said, Yoga and I have a history. Yoga understands. Yoga loves. I smiled deliciously.

“It’s okay,” I thought. “I’m new. Everyone must start out this way.” I did have a fleeting hypothesis that had Time not made me late for class, I might have gotten a few pointers before embarking on my War on Gravity. But I exorcised the regret without difficulty. You become quite proficient at that with regular practice.

Eventually, after much experimentation, I accomplished the feat of two complete rotations before Gravity fought back. Then three. Four. Five. Then I had a mini-epiphany. I just relaxed and let it spin. And spin. And spin. Oh, the freedom, the ecstasy, of the unhindered rotation! Around and around and around. Then crash.

“That’s okay,” I thought. “I’m new, and Yoga likes me. Everybody must start out this way.” So when everyone else dutifully started spinning faster, or slower, or higher, or lower, at the instructor’s command, I just grinned stupidly and kept on spinning in my own enlightened way. “I’m onto you, Gravity!” I shrieked internally. “You’re going down!”

Actually it was my hoop that was going down, but that’s okay. I’m new. Now everyone was spinning their hoops the other way. Apparently new hoopers should spend at least 70% of their hooping time hooping in their non-dominant direction. “Not a chance,” I thought. I brazenly hooped on in my own enlightened way (clockwise, that is). No anti-rotational angst for me. “Take that, Gravity! Hah!”

Eventually we had to go back to stretching-on-the-mat-without-touching-our-hoops. This displeased me. This bored me. Yoga and I are on much better terms than this. I’m disappointed in you, Yoga. You are supposed to be amusing me.

“Okay everybody, pick up your hoops again,” cooed the instructor. “Wheee!” I squealed. And around and around it went. I did squats while hooping. I pivoted in circles while hooping. I perspired while hooping. I walked around the room while hooping. I walked backwards around the room while hooping. I did not quite stand on one foot while hooping. I am new, after all. I hooped in first, second, and third gears. I did not close my eyes while hooping. That would be unconscionable. One must have the pleasure of seeing one’s hoop in all of its constant, glorious motion. I continued to grin stupidly. “I love you, Yoga,” I hollered. Internally.

At the end of class, we had to thank our inner child for coming out to play. We had to honour the light within us and within each other. We had to honour our place in the hooping journey. I like this part of Yoga, too, but only because it makes me giggle. On the way out, I learned that two of the other women in the class were first-timers. Their proficiency probably should have embarrassed me, but it didn’t. Yoga and I are in a relationship. Yoga understands.

Yoga, you see, is on my side. Time, Gravity, and most of the other laws of nature fall to their knees under the benevolent gaze of Yoga, and I am Yoga’s queen. It’s a remarkably convenient arrangement, and now it’s sealed for eternity by the glittering ring around my waist. Yoga, I am yours.