I started Yoga two weeks ago.  I decided it was Time.  Two of my friends told me they were “also just beginning” and “completely useless” and that I would feel very comfortable in this small group of 13. (I was to be 13.  I should have taken more careful note at the time).

Now I don’t profess to be a hardened exercisee, but I have attended my fair share of aerobics/step/pump/dance-fit etc classes.  So I have already mastered the Art of Being New.

The first thing that happens is this:
You walk into a room full of strangers, who are generally wearing Nike this and Adidas that.  They are all talking about Mutual Friends and Last Night/Last Weekend/Monaco/The Joneses.  They shoot you a sideways look, which to the uninitiated could possibly pass as a friendly acknowledgement.  To The Newcomer, however, it clearly says – You are New.  This is My Territory.  That is My Mat. Take your No-name Trainers to The Back and do not attempt Conversation.

You stumble as inconspicuously as possible to the back and take covert measure of your surroundings.  This is essential.  You need to know where the water cooler is, and how to operate it (there is nothing more embarrassing than a Water Cooler Incident – I know, believe me), where to put your water bottle and how to set up your mat/step/weights/band/ball – it sounds mundane – but to the Newcomer – it is an ordeal of highest proportion.

Then the Instructor enters, sporting Nike this, Adidas that, New Balance something else.  She is, without fail, like the Nivea girl who leaps around displaying No-Cellulite Legs and looks perennially 23.  Everyone knows her.  She is usually called Mimi or Randi or Apple, or something equally catchy. They all engage in friendly banter about how sore their butts are From The Last Time (pointed sideways look in Newcomer’s direction) and how they Really Need To Work On Their Glutes. (At this point they surreptitiously tighten said offenders and glance imperceptibly at their perfect silhouettes in the mirrors.  Then they shoot an even less perceptible glance around the room, comparing butts.  Then seamlessly go back to the friendly-but-lethal banter.)

Then the next thing that happens is this:
The Instructor looks around and says something pleasant like “Hello gals – let’s get this started – if you think your butts were sore Last Time, that was Nothing!  Right – before we start, make sure you have your water with you.  Any back injuries or other injuries I should know about?” and then, voice lowers, brow darkens, tone lowers and…”Anyone New To The Class Today??”

So in spite of plucking up enough courage to even enter the class in the first place, tiptoeing humbly to the back, avoiding the Gals Who Were There Last Time, carefully navigating the Territorial Mats, and hoping you have blended enough into the background to have been forgotten… Your carefully contrived cover is blown to smithereens in a second.  All eyes are trained on you.  All expressions are of malicious expectation as you, trembling, raise your hand…

With this kind of introduction to a new class, the experienced Newcomer quickly masters the Watch And Learn technique.  Which basically means: allow a 2-second time delay before responding to any instruction.  Use this 2 seconds to quickly scan, analyse and memorise what The Room In General Is Doing.  Then do it – very quickly – before they get up, or change position, or notice you.  This invariably means you either:
a)    Do not even get started – some moves being 2 seconds or less.
b)   Do a very speeded-up version of the move, which is probably not very effective at all, and leaves you rather breathless and flustered just in time for the next 2-second time delay.
c)    Land in an ungainly heap on the floor, effectively erasing the entire 2-second technique, all eyes now being firmly focussed on you for the duration of the class.

So you will understand how I felt when I finally plucked up the courage and went to Yoga.  For a start I had no idea what to wear.  Seriously – I rocked up in full aerobics gear (labels and everything), socks and trainers, complete  with a moisturewick (I think that’s what it said)  sweat towel and a bottle of water – ready for Action.  I did not need the trainers.  Or the Hidden Socks. Or the towel. (Correction – I could have done with the towel several times during the hour…but no one else had one.  I am NOT the one for Doing Something Different.  Think Lemming.  Think Ostrich.  Think Sheep.  That’s me.)

So there I am.  Number Thirteen.  Entering a New Room.  With twelve other Gals Who Were There Last Time (the last about 40 times, I gathered later).  Thirteen mats, strategically scattered around the room in seemingly random order.  (Haha – not to the Experienced Newcomer!  No Siree – not me.  I was not going to Stick Out, Cause A Scene, Innocently Exappropriate a Mat of a Last Time Gal).

So I hang back, do a quick reconnaissance, duck my head, hold my breath, and scuttle quietly to the back, selecting the shabbiest, most inconspicuous mat I can find.

So far, it is pretty much as I have expected.  Except  – horrors! -it seems that my carefully selected matching Nike outfit and tight fitting (rather too tight-fitting, but hey – that’s why I’m at yoga) garments are glaringly out of place here.  Here everyone looks like they just stepped out of Home and Garden, in their elegant Lounging Attire.  Those pants that you see on girls in the movies – you know?  Where they cling attractively to their hip bones, and fall gracefully from the non-existent curve of their belly.  Belly buttons galore – flat and sleek and tanned.  You know what I mean. Intimidating. Terrifying.

I desperately pull at the offending lycra and try to surreptitiously lower my waistband, hoping for the same graceful hip-bone transformation.  Sadly I succeed only in exposing my non-Nivea derriere and accentuating my bulging waistline, which now hangs disconsolately over the band of my Nike-Air Extreme-Gusset-Control sweat pants; not to mention the baggy bit around my cellulite-enhanced Glutes which looks suspiciously like I have had an embarrassing accident and am not sure what to do with it.

To make matters worse, one of the Sleek Belly Buttons is advancing with Intent.  My belly button quivers and swallows itself up in comforting rolls of fat as I look miserably to the floor and hope I have not been spotted.  No such luck, Thirteen.   The honeyed voice matches the graceful leisure-wear.  “Um…sorry to be a pain.  But…This Is My Mat.  I always go at the very back , you see, because I am just hopeless and I don’t want anyone to see me…” (this with a musical tinkling laugh, accompanied by eleven others, rising in comradely unison).  I blush to my (badly in need of a touch-up) roots and mumble incoherently, step away hastily, trip over my Extreme Gusset, and land in an ungainly heap on the floor…

At which point the Yoga instructor (guru or Zen-master or chief or whatever – I am quite sure there is a name The Gals Who Came Last Time know, which I clearly do not) beams dazzlingly upon the room and says “Anyone New To The Class Today…?”  And the nightmare begins…