Gerard Reynolds was feeling stressed. So he joined a yoga class - and grunted and groaned with the other novices
Stress. The buzzword of the noughties. A little is good for you, they say. It has a funny way of showing it to this writer unless breathlessness, panic attacks, overeating and whopping bouts of psoriasis are the new cod-liver oil.Try yoga, said a friend.
It was a novel suggestion for an Irishman, especially me, whose physical exertions extend to a slow trot, accompanied by the missus and a 99 from Teddys, along Dún Laoghaire pier of a Sunday. But how hard could it be? Sit there, wave the hands about in slow motion, learn to breathe and watch as those pounds fall away. Madonna apparently used it to regain her figure within minutes of giving birth; maybe it would do me good, too.
So my world-weary frame found itself dragged to the gym one dreary night. For once I didn't let the foul weather dictate my mood. I knew I would cartwheel out an hour later with a washboard stomach and a new outlook on life.
My arrival could have been an ad for lager: "Carlsberg don't do yoga classes, but if they did . . ." The woman on the phone had assured me it was a mixed class, but I found myself the sole male in a sea - no, make that an ocean - of leotard-clad women.
I felt like Mel Gibson's character in What Women Want - so refused to allow self-consciousness at my six-feet, one-inch frame and fledgling beer belly to ruin my first class. It was, after all, as much about mental as physical health, according to our instructor, a lithe woman in her mid-40s who oozed health and serenity. All she lacked was Disney-style bluebirds flitting around her head and fawns prancing at her feet.
On her whispered instruction 14 middle-class posteriors hit the mats. She started us off with a few stretches. "Breathe in . . . hold for five . . . breathe out . . . stretch the left arm over your head . . . breathe in again . . . hold . . ."
This was easy-peasy stuff; I was feeling great already. Washboard abs here I come - hurrah! Nothing like a night out with the girls.
A few stretches, leaps and balancing acts later we closed the session by practising a sun salutation, a complex move involving 12 gestures designed to be performed as one graceful movement. This ensures that sweat, pain and tears are maximised, at least for the novice saluter.
Apparently you should do it every morning, to greet the rising sun. You can tell yoga wasn't invented in Ireland. How about a drizzle-and-fog salutation for the Irish market?
I was surprised by the toughness of the poses and was stretching muscles I didn't know I had in ways I didn't think were possible. Around the room arms and legs were akimbo, the uninitiated inevitably grunting, groaning and giggling.
And then it was over: the session had passed amazingly quickly. I left feeling refreshed, serene and positive - and seriously considering coming back for more.
I think the washboard stomach is a few sessions away yet, though.