Relaxation can be exhausting

It looked like I was in heaven. Everything around me was white; the walls, curtains, the people
with their white clothes and teeth. Vainly, I’d left my glasses at home, and I kept losing the
instructor who blended in like a chameleon with her surroundings.

‘Yoga for Beginners,’ It had said, ‘Every Monday with Tabitha Phillipa Roughchild,’ who made
bold claims that she could end all my stress, problems and have me stretching like a nubile
teenager. So said the poster. I was willing to give her a whirl. Relaxation has always been a big
problem for me, so here I was at eight PM on a Monday with what seemed like a room of utter
professionals. I awaited instruction, stiffly. I had black leggings on which bagged at the knees,
and unfortunately at the crotch which is far worse. I wondered if it was once very fat down there,
and if it was the only place I’d lost weight. My sky blue t-shirt rose too high at the back, whilst
the front hung too low and the hem was all crinkled. To my knowledge, none of the participants
actually looked at me, I assumed in case they’d be infected by this unclean woman. Particles of
my filth were already flying freely and happily round the room. It would have to take something
pretty big to make me feel relaxed.
"Deep breath in, low from the diaphragm, hold for five. Left foot step back into Cringing Lotus,
heel up, bend the knees, breath out for two, lower the knees, arms out front, relax the neck,
breathe in for six, push your calves back, and step together into Standing Plank."
Tabitha had apparently learnt to speak in this calm, relaxed voice in heaven, then she
had probably floated down on an angel’s wing to us mortals, which made me feel even less
relaxed. The sequence I’d been instructed to do left me feeling as if I’d just auditioned for the
part of: Woman being brought to a hospital casualty department, obviously dying.
By the end of the second sequence, which was Something Dog, with a Buddha, my
breathing sounded goat like, as I struggled for breath in a perfectly quiet environment. I gasped
in an attempt to keep it low and contained, which made me shake violently.
I had caused Tabitha Phillipa Roughchild to single me out, and she asked;
"Madam, are you alright?"
I thought, Oh no, she called me Madam, I must look bad... I nodded while I tried to think of an
excuse, and in my panic instead of saying, “I'm diabetic,” I said, "Sorry, I'm dyslexic." and pulled
my most apologetic face daringly at everyone, until I realized my error.
"Yesss," she replied, slowly. I looked down at the floor.
I flung myself into all the positions; Laughing Cow, Squatting Nun, Waving at the Sun, or
whatever. I grunted, sweated and groaned involuntarily . I felt like a whale that had dared to live
on the land, on this tiny, perfect Yoga Island. Everyone else seemed to be performing
beautifully, only highlighting my hippopotamus dance. My face became a big red balloon, dizzy
from the exhaustion and the breathing. Tabitha notified us that soon we would sit down on the
mats. Thank God... I thought. The knees and crotch on my leggings had stretched even more, I
shook like a methadone user before their fix, and this was only Yoga.
Every now and then Tabitha Phillipa Roughchild would shoot me a pinched expression,
apparently concerned that this shipwreck might actually die in her perfect beginners class. I was
a stain in her perfect white world. I fell to the floor like a sack of coal, where everyone else
floated. At one point I actually thought I saw Tabitha levitate slightly off the floor. If I thought this
part would be easier, I was wrong. I felt sure that no ones groin is meant to be stretched that
much from the outside. The men in the class also wore skin tight white leggings, and when they
sat upright with their legs wide open they displayed their fruit and veg, which sat neatly on their
mats. That caused me to smile. Who needs to pay a high price for the ballet, when for two
pounds you could come to Yoga and see it all up close. My legs opened until the distance
between my feet was about the length of a six month old baby boy.
"Now, lay on your side and push yourself up to a fully extended arm. The other arm reaches
straight up towards the ceiling. Now breathe in for three counts through the nose and then let
out of the mouth for six. Keep your neck in line with your spine, breathe in for five counts, and
hold. Legs stay together, and don't forget to breathe."

I had in fact almost forgotten how to breathe normally.

"Relax into this position," she commanded, and with that, I collapsed. I flapped around, gasping
for breath, as I performed the new Yoga position - Dying Fish.
Not one fibre of my being felt relaxed. I sat up in a crumpled heap, and my strained muscles
shook involuntarily. I was beyond caring what others thought. These people were perfect
strangers who, for some reason I felt like I had to compete with, and I didn’t want to appear
stupid. Everyone ignored me. Tabitha continued, unfettered. I guessed her Twitter or Instagram
handle to be @PurpleYogaGoddessLaLaFaFa. I was beginning to think I was destined never to
be truly relaxed.

I cast my mind back to some of the more outlandish techniques, whilst the others in the
room continued, perfectly.
The Amusement Bath, where you splash around in Red Wine. As a complete lush, it was not a
good choice of treatments for myself. I ended up drinking way too much of it, then I had to be
escorted out by the bald lifeguard, after I’d remarked that he resembled a testicle. He was not
amused.

Doctor Fish, that chew away dead skin from your feet. This experience wasn't unpleasant but it
tickled so much that I became hysterical with laughter, and splashed my feet around, to the
point where I kicked one of the fish out of the tank. The ladies there shouted at me in Mandarin,
which wasn't so relaxing.

Acupuncture only exacerbated my tension with every needle that was inserted.
A frightening facial. Somehow I had misread the notice board that day and thought it said
Pi’centa. I imagined it was some sort of French relaxation technique. I inquired as to what the
'Special ingredients' were in the substance which gripped my face and pulled it so tightly, and
almost fainted when the light in my brain switched on to the understanding that it was a
stranger's afterbirth, a Placenta sitting on the top of my lip. That left me with nightmares for
weeks, and was most definitely not relaxing.

Screaming Relaxation Classes which had at the time seemed a contradiction of terms. A group
of women go to the top of a hill, and all scream.out their frustrations.
"It's cleansing the lungs, it's like Yoga!" the tiny instructor told us.
Most of the shouting I found to be very aggressive and negative, and there seemed to be a lot of
frustration surrounding the menopause, A woman with bright red hair screamed that she wished
to have her womb removed, and many wished their husbands were dead. That made me feel
depressed for about a week.

My most recent attempt at relaxing had been the worst, health-wise. I booked a session to
Open My Third Eye. I laid down, and warm oil was poured over my forehead. It ran down into
both my eyes and caused an allergic reaction. Both eyes swelled and closed. I cursed the
woman, telling her she’d better open my third eye now, as I could see sweet fanny nothing with
my regular ones.
I refused to pay of course. That tranquility cost me two weeks off work, in constant pain. I was
absolutely one hundred percent not relaxing. During all these incidents I was never sure
whether I had just been pampered or tortured.
Someone lightly shook my arm, bringing me back to reality. It was Tabitha Phillipa Roughchild,
informing me that the class had finished. It hadn't been the experience I was hoping for, and
once again I felt robbed of what I so desperately wanted. In fact, I felt rather slighted, as I stared
up at Little Miss Tension-Free in front of me.
"Madam, I hope you don't mind me saying, but maybe my beginners class, which starts now at
eight, might be a shade easier than the seven o'clock Advanced Yoga Class."

I was dumbfounded. I scrambled to look at my watch, which said two minutes to eight. In my
rushed and stressed state I had got there an hour early.
I smiled at her with the appropriate Court Jester’s grin, and slunk away. Yoga now for me will
always remain just a concept.

Trixie Bloom is the author of Misadventures of a Femme Fatale — Part One — Facebook Blues,
a comedy romance novel about what happens when you chase your past, and Trixercise —
Loving Yourself Hurts, a diet and exercise parody with real exercises.