Yoga is supposed to make you feel good. It is supposed to clear out tension blockades, release energy to flow like fresh mountain spring water and open up, relax and harmonize the body. It is true that the practice of yoga can accomplish corporeal and spiritual magic, but if the yogis around me have their feet twice wrapped around their heads while I struggle to bend over, angst becomes the order of my day.

Yoga is not supposed to be a competitive sport (though I have heard of yoga competitions).  If only taking off my westernized, capitalistic view point was as easy as taking off my shoes and socks at the studio door. I bring my perspective with me and it causes me to suffer and because they keep reminding you to be in the present moment, I am much more aware of this suffering then I would usually be. From my vantage, most of the people in my yoga classes are “better” then me. They are more flexible and more balanced. They can do the poses as shown without the support of the three bricks, two blankets, a strap and a crane. I know that I should love and honor my body where it is at, but it is difficult when it appears that the bodies around me are in better places. Sometimes the flexy bodied people make inane comments and then I feel a bit better. “They may be more flexible, but they are a bit idiotic.” It is a small and dark comfort.

I see them in headstands, their bodies taut and balanced, their shoulders limber and strong and I try not to hate them. I resist the childish urge to knock them over like a stack of blocks. I try to distract myself with sexy thoughts of the instructor, something I am an experienced expert at. Sadly even that leads to pain as I realize that a yoga instructor would want to have superhuman, inverted, levitating yoga sex. I probably wouldn’t be up for it and who wants all those yoga blocks in bed anyway?

And then, when I have myself worked up into a respectable tizzy I remember who I should really be comparing myself to; my neurotic family. They are charming folk, all of them, and they can’t help it if they make more money then me, drive nicer cars, vote Republican and only recycle if a hippy stars knowing on their legs. All of them, with the exception of my 2-year old nephew, are stiffer then me. They have superbly tight and knotty hips and hamstrings and practically have to UPS their socks to their feet in the morning. They have more energy blockages then the 405 Freeway at 7:30. My father who has taken up yoga in his 60’s cannot sit in simple cross legged pose without several assistive devices.

When you are dating someone you can look at their parents to see what you might be waking up to in 25 years. In this way I look at the members of my family, particularly the older ones, to see the conditions and maladies that I want desperately to avoid. I’d like to avoid osteoporosis, limited movement, pain and the inability to have a conversation without quoting conservative talk radio. I try to keep my eye (both inner and outer) on this prize as I twist and strain and attempt to transform my body into a flexible, harmonious playground.

I know, I know, I’m not supposed to compare myself to other people, even my own family, but I consider this a stepping stone on the long path to enlightenment. I often dedicate my practice to my older self. The self that I hope will be more enlightened, agile, and active for a very long time to come.