Yoga is is not for wimps. I have been congratulating myself on being comfortable in my Pilates class. I go to a class in a nice yuppie neighbourhood. Lots of young women, some of them dancers attend. And I keep up. . . . mostly. When I don’t I blame it on my artificial hip, my 67 years are a good excuse too. I can do roll-ups, balance on a huge ball and squeeze. . . oh, never mind. I’m good in that class. Only problem is, it’s a little bit pricey, so I thought I’d look around my neighbourhood and see what else was out there. Turns out the local Y had a special for oldies like me. For three months I can go to any class I like and it only cost $64. So, I signed up and went tonight to my first class. It was yoga. Oh boy, I knew I was in trouble when I noticed sweat dripping onto the rather ratty mat -I’ll be bringing my own next time. There will be a next time because I know this is a good practice, but it is h.a.r.d. That downward dog thing? Who knew it led to a plank and then a cobra. . . Well. At least now I know what to expect. Oh, and the others in the class? Some are guys with hairy legs who have the whole process down pat. Somehow I like it better in the class with the dancers where I can fantasize that if I keep at it long enough I might hold that enormous ball and roll it between my heels and my toes. How Western of me! I must delve into the philosophy of the East so I can be a tranquil human corkscrew.