I am broken.

A shattered shell of my former usually bouncy self.

But for once this is not a black turn, or a fit of melancholy. No, this is self-inflicted. It has been over a year since my sparkly buddy and loyal yoga partner left me for sunnier shores, and at least eight months since I last braved yoga class by myself. It is no one's fault but my own that I am so out of shape.

I decided this week that I couldn’t bear the middle aged spread that has sprouted in the form of an unsightly and unruly tyre of flesh around my middle, making me look like a beginner swimmer with a flesh-coloured rubber ring. I’m only 28 for chrissake, I have a fair few years before I am middle aged. Dammit, this has got to stop.

So I packed my gym kit and headed off to yoga.

I loved it, remembered why I loved it and kept coming back previously. Remembered how much calmer, and how much more contended I felt.

The asanas (or postures) came back to me like a second nature and my teacher’s voice was soothing and serene. But it was the camel that broke the straw’s back.

Today I have been hobbling around like an old woman with aching sides and strained glutes.

Bugger. Is it really worth it?


Oh hell yes…I’m going back for more on Thursday!

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