Senior Yoga, aka Twist & Shout

Getting old is about gains versus losses.  Mostly losses. You lose your strength, you lose your balance, you lose  hair, you lose your flexibility, you lose your memory. About all you gain is weight, although for men I suppose a larger prostate is a gain of sorts. 

As an avid senior golfer, I’ve lost something else - distance.  Precious, precious distance.  I used to hit long, towering drives that hung in the sky forever.  Now my golf swing is producing harmless little pop flies you’d see at a 6 year old’s T Ball game.  

For those non-golfers reading my blog, distance is critical all to golfers.   So when you get older and begin to lose it, you obsess about getting it back.  It’s that important.  

How important?  One of my friends said that if his doctor gave him the choice of a prescription for Viagra, or a pill that would give him 25 more yards more distance, he would take the yardage pill without fail.  

“Why would you do that?,” I asked incredulously.  

He didn’t hesitate. “Because I play golf everyday.”

 

I tried almost everything to get my distance back. I bought new clubs, new golf balls, and read countless articles about the secrets of hitting it further. Nothing worked.   So, I finally broke down and did something I never thought I would do.  A desperate man will take desperate measures.  So I gave in. I caved.  I picked up my phone and registered  for Senior Yoga at the YMCA. 

 In full disclosure, it wasn’t my idea.  A while back during a routine checkup, my doctor mentioned that taking a yoga class might help my golf game. That got my attention, until I found out it he was talking about more than just one class. He wanted me to take several classes a week - forever!   Forget that crap! 

 But as I kept spending more and more time watching that dimpled ball spend less and less time in the air, I had to do something.  Yoga here I come. 

On the first day, I reluctantly walked in the workout room - halfway expecting incense, candles, and chanting of some sort.   Instead, I was greeted by my instructor, Vivian. She was a very pleasant, grandmotherly type.   I thought she looked like she was in her late 70s, and I was right.  “So, she’s gonna lead me in an exercise class?”,  I thought. “About the only thing she could teach me would be quilting.”  What had I got myself into?

I walked to the far side of the gym and looked around.   About 20 folding chairs formed 3 neat lines  that were being rapidly filled up by a group of ladies ranging in age from 60 to about 127.  I was the only male in the room.  Smugly, I thought, “It finally happened. I’ll be the hottie in the class.”   I couldn’t wait for the exercises to begin - I planned to show these little old ladies how to breeze thru this session. 

We began slowly with a few gentle movements obviously designed to  warm up all the old muscles.  I laughed to myself as I went thru the motions.  “Is this it?”, I asked myself.  “This is all there is to this yoga stuff?” 

I got the answer to my question in short order.  There was plenty more. It seems that Vivian had been teaching yoga for about 30 years.  And that sweet demeanor on the outside hid a bit of a masochistic Nazi on the inside.  The warm up gave way to more serious stuff.  I began stretching and straining muscles that hadn’t been used since about 1985.  I was pulling on things that have never been pulled on before.  I heard some joints pop and grind.   My legs shook like Elvis singing Hound Dog as I tried to keep my balance.  It’s hard to be a hottie when you’re gasping for oxygen.  Vivian effortlessly ran thru her routine calling out the yoga poses with cute little names like  Downward Facing Dog, Dancing Warrior, and Cow and Cat.  But I gave them more appropriate titles  like  Pulled Groin,  Find the Ibuprofen, and Call the Chiropractor. 

After 45 minutes, the class mercifully ended, and I sat in my chair, sweating like Nancy Pelosi at a Q’Anon meeting.   Sweet Vivian touched me on the shoulder, the Nazi now repressed.  

She asked sweetly,  “Well, how did you do?”  

“We didn’t have to call the paramedics, so I guess that’s a victory,” I replied weakly. 

She smiled. “It’ll get better.  Just keep coming.” 

I did.  That was several months ago.  To my delight,  it finally began helping golf game!  Furthermore,  when I go to class now I can even do Downward Facing Dog. 

And I do like being the class hottie, even if it’s in my own mind.  Which it undoubtedly is. 

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