Caryn Rose

I am probably the only person in the history of Westhill High School who didn't make the cut for third string Junior Varsity Field Hockey. It was the first sport of the year, and in a spirit of wanting to encourage athletic participation, the powers-that-be put together three strings of would-be female athletes, even if said third string played once every third or fourth game, when there was a clear lead.

That experience pretty much sums up my entire attempt at being athletic, or getting any kind of exercise, from age 10 onward.

I started trying to work out around age 35, when my commute changed from urban to suburban, and my butt changed from shapely to double-wide. And work out I did, even getting up at 6 a.m. to hit the gym before work, in an attempt to 'integrate working out into my life.' I finally gave up when I realized I hated it and never felt like I got any better at it. I even hired a personal trainer, the one thing my gym swore would make all the difference, only for him to tell me that I shouldn't work out in the morning because I was, well, not too coordinated at that time of day. Thanks.

Hitting 40, moving back home to NYC, and type two diabetes running rampant in my family, I decided to take up a serious yoga practice, yoga being the one activity that had been consistent in my life for the last 15 years, on and off. Bikram Yoga LES was two blocks from my new apartment and I figured I wouldn't have many excuses. I had done 'hot yoga' in Seattle on a fairly regular basis; piece of cake, right?

I thought I was going to die in my first class, much hotter than I remembered it, EVER, a million times more difficult than the aforementioned 'hot yoga' ever was. Of course, my first class was a mid-day session filled with people bending to touch the windows like feathers floating, while I couldn't pick up my foot for standing bow without falling over. Even moving next to the wall and holding on to the ballet bars, I couldn't pick up my foot - barely - sort of - almost.

But I didn't leave the room, mostly because I couldn't bear to disappoint the teacher, probably the most personable and positive without being new-age-gag-me I'd ever had. He made it seem as though doing so would be one of the greatest disappointments that he could ever suffer.

And I came back the next day. I did five days out of my intro week. The results were amazing - things were firm that had never been firm. My energy was off the charts. My mood was elevated. I liked it.

When Intro Week was up, I signed up for one month unlimited.
"You know, if you do thirty days in a row, you get the next month on me," the weird but cute woman with pink hair at the front desk advised.
I sternly informed her that my life had no room for such a thing, that I wasn't physical, just wasn't possible.

One week later, I had done seven days in a row. When I hit 10 days, I started talking about how I was going to try to hit 30. Slowly, very slowly, I could bend. I was still standing at the wall but I could at least pick up my foot in standing bow. Then the day came when I stood next to the wall but didn't need it. The day that I arrived and there was no wall space was a tough one. I moved to the middle of the room and fell over about six times in 30 seconds and felt like a spastic weakling, but I picked my foot up!

At 14 days, Tricia noticed. She would ask me in class how many days I had going. I mastered Camel. I no longer needed a wall for anything. I started picking up my foot for standing head to knee, instead of standing up and holding my leg in the air. (I fell out after 10 seconds, but just picked it back up again. If you've ever been in class with me, I'm the one in the front row who falls out 12 times during one minute.)

I could never get my hands around my feet in floor bow. Tricia tried. Everyone tried. Towels didn't help. And then, one day, I realized I could grab my foot from the opposite way, and snake it around into position. I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest.

And I hit 30 days. In a row. Me. Wasn't-allowed-to-play-volleyball-in-junior-high-due-to-uncoordination-ruining-games me.

My clothes are too big on me. My stress level has become manageable. I have met friends and clothes designers and forged support systems out of total strangers, sitting on the bench or in that hot room. And the teachers are their own brand of crazy fantastic, not one of them the same, and every one great in their own way.

I still fall out of standing head to knee, but I keep trying. I still fall out of standing bow, but I keep trying. There are days I sit down every third pose. And there are days I feel like I might go for teacher training some day. But I still walk in that door, no matter what. Some of my worst days turn out to be some of my best yoga days, and vice versa too.

My greatest joy now, besides coming to yoga four times a week and being able to recite Trisha's class rap verbatim ("30 second, piece of cake bow"), is when people walk up to me to tell me they are trying for 30 days in a row and that I inspired them to do it.

Me. Couldn't-swim-to-the-float-at-Camp-Francis me.

If I can do this, anyone can.

--Caryn Rose