I want you to sit down and grab your big toes. That’s what I said: your big toes. And while holding your big toes, bring your feet up to the same level as your ears. Yes, both of them at the same time. Still with me? Okay then, now straighten your legs.
Why would anyone in their right mind want to do that?
It’s called Yoga, and New Yorkers do a lot of it.
As your Andalusia Star News New York City Corespondent, it is my duty to investigate bizarre Yankee fetishes. Lemmie tell you, this city has a surplus of the mentally challenged, slightly deranged, and new-age yoga-practicing-chanting tofu-eaters.
I’ll admit it, I find exercise boring. I’ve tried jogging. I’ve tried lifting weights. I’ve even tried boxing (I darn near knocked myself out). Let’s face it: exercise generally involves doing “reps,” and I find them, well, repetitive.
So then I looked to sports. But if involves a spherical object, your New York City Corespondent doesn’t want anything to do with it. That rules out just about everything but horseback riding and fishing. And when one gets pooped holding a bamboo pole over the side of a fiberglass boat, you know yer in trouble.
Then I joined an exercise studio where they had stair climbing machines, stationary bicycles, treadmills, rowing machines, weight machines, and even a Nordictrack. I about killed myself on every one.
Being a guy, when I went into the joint and saw all these waif women climbing the stairs on level 12, I thought anything less than level 15 would make me look like a sissy communist wuss. Okay, let’s get one thing straight men, don’t ever, ever get yourself stuck in a stair race with a woman. They do those things in their sleep. They perform special exercises on the Nautilus equipment that helps them climb higher (I think it’s that perverted looking machine that throws people’s legs everywhichaway). Gentlemen of Andalusia, the woman next to me was reading Don Quixote while on level 12. Apparently, level 12 is the equivalent of climbing 40 flights of stairs. Level 13 is like 80 flights. Level 14 is 160. And 15 is like Mount Everest. All I could think of to read was the information on the handlebars that read “PREGNANT WOMEN, PEOPLE WITH A HEART CONDITION, AND SHOW-OFF FOOLS FROM ALABAMA SHOULD CONSULT A M.D. BEFORE ATTEMPTING THIS MACHINE.”
So I moved on to the “LifeCycle.” That name right there should have tipped me off. LifeCycle? You get on feeling like a young man and get off feeling like Bob Dole.
And how about “Easy Rider?” What’s easy about that thing? It’s got the handlebars of a bicycle and a seat that’s constantly going up and down. Personally, I generally try to keep my seat in the “down” position.
The rowing machine made me feel like a Viking hostage. The treadmill was right in front of a mirror and if there’s one thing worse than having to look in the bathroom mirror in the morning, it’s having to look in the gym mirror. And I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you about the roller-blading machine, the mountain-climbing machine, and the digitized jumping machine.
But the worst was Mr. Nordic’s little invention. It looks so simple on TV. They’re just sliding around and smiling as they burn off unwanted fat all on their mock-skiing machine. Doesn’t it look fun, folks? There should be a disclaimer in the television ads: “Warning: these models have taken 50 hours worth of classes to figure out how to ride this infernal contraption without looking like a marionette doing the hula.” When I tried the sucker, my left leg shot out from under me while my right arm got caught in the wires that controlled my right leg, causing a major bodily catastrophe that involved me in some highly unnatural positions.
So I figured that if I was gonna be putting my legs behind my head, it ought to be on purpose rather than on a silly cross-country skiing dohicky. Thus, I went to a yoga class.
The instructor was a red-headed woman who lit a bunch of candles, turned down the lights, took off about half of what she had on, told us all to quietly close our eyes, breathe in a deep breath, roll our head back, and holler “AHHHHHHHHHHH.” Then we said “Ommmmm.” Then she said we could make one up so I said, “Annn-Dahhh-Loooo-Zaaaa.” It actually made me feel better until we started having to stand on our heads and put our elbows on the heels of our feet while at the same time continuing to chant “Ann-Dahh-Loo-Zaaaa.”
I thought yoga would be easy. Nay, nay. By the end of the class I was in need of a paramedic, a beer, and an economy-size vat of vapor-rub.
I’ve decided to leave Adonis to the Greeks, Yoga to Ghandi, and marathon BBQ sandwich eating exercises to folks from Ann-Dah-Loo-Zaaa.
—Morgan Murphy