I have a love/hate relationship with yoga. I can be utterly bored by it and I can be utterly bored by a lot of the people who do it but sometimes, you can’t beat a good old stretch. And when your body starts to give up the fight against gravity, you grab any opportunity to convince it otherwise. So when the other one suggested that we try a new yoga class run by one of the scooby gang (that I’d been resisting on account of the fact that it costs the same for one class as it does for a whole month at the Indian High Commission) I gave in.
I’d been worried that it would be full of skinny minny, expat wives with busy beach lives, preferring to nail my colours to the affordable, mixed community alternative at the Indian High Commission but I’ve had my head turned. I can go to yoga in a community hall, inches from the next person, no air con, the odd working fan in a class of about 25-30 and work hard for an hour or go to a gazebo, surrounded by richly green wetland, chirruping birds,a cooling breeze, five other people, the odd mossie and work hard, but chilled, for an hour and a half.
It’s like the Indian High is the backpackers, Nature Seychelles, the four star hotel. They both are brilliantly good at what they do but it just depends what you’re in the mood for.
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