The Wobbly Yogi and that bitch Sheila

1. ‘Inhale, and on your next breath out, stretch all the way to the left’, she says.

I stretch a little bit to the right, then realise it’s the other right and adjust my position accordingly.

now return to centre position

With only a slight delay, I return to a wobbly but centre position.

'Finally, we’re going to do the Rabid Newt Pose: stretch out, put your palms together, place your left foot behind your right ear and your chin behind your right calf; don’t forget to breathe in and out.'*

I expect her to add ' Just kidding, possums!' but she’s as serious as she’s contortioned.

At the words ' Now in a sitting position, bend forward and hug your knees', the hug I give myself is a desperate plea for foetal position and general surrender. I’m crap. I’m crap! My Tree pose looks like it deserves to be chopped down; my eagle pose sends me crashing to the floor; my camel pose is insulting to ruminant mammals everywhere. I’m a wobbly yogi. So, when the time comes to hug my knees, I hug for longer than was meant and try not to cry.

2. I don’t cry, of course. Much. It’s a battle against that high pitched, raucous voice in my head that repeats: ’crap, utter crap. No point, why bother; futile; if you can’t stand on one foot without toppling over what CAN you do, child? You’ll never be good. Crap.

3. Oooh, self-esteem issues, how very 2005. Or is it?

4. No exactly. Only partly.
The life story bit:
I grew up with little encouragement. I’m not trying to get pity; nothing of the kind.
Always top of the class, if I succeeded at something, and I invariably did, it was never thanks to my efforts. It was just a gift I had for academic studies. I passed every exam with as little revision as I could. No need for encouragement, if success was the only outcome. As a result I don’t know what it is to try harder. If I don’t succeed at first, I give up, because I don’t know what it is to truly work towards a long-term goal. I don’t know what I’m capable of and I believe in genius, instant inspiration, rather than hard work, tears and sweat.

5. This is why I’m so mediocre today. I am not artistic because I won’t be Frida Kalho as soon as I pick up a paint brush; I won’t play an instrument because it takes work to be Rod Stewart Phil Collins Haydn*. I won’t write a novel because I’m not Françoise Sagan.

6. So after I calm down and relax my knees from the vice-like hug, I do what I do best: ignore the people around me and start rationalising my crap.

7. This voice, can it be isolated? Can/should it be made into an entity? And could we call that entity Sheila? Every time Sheila starts with her diatribe, I’ll tell her to shut the fuck up. See where we are after that.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress, people of blogland.
Cos there will be progress.
Fuck Sheila.

* Footnote1: People, I totally made that one up. There’s no such thing as the Rabid Newt Pose. Please don’t try this at home. Or at least don’t send me the chiropractor bills.
* Footnote 2 Ok, Don’t start. I know I don’t need to justify my dislike of Phil Collins, do I, As to Rod Stewart, I don’t know. The man just fills me with repulsion. I don’t know if he’s a good musician.

Afterthought: I can do a wickedly good bridge pose, though. G’night.