If you’ve been following my blog, you know about my love affair with the Y (formerly named the YMCA). Well, there recently has appeared a chink in my admiration, and it has to do with the Y’s insistence on multi-generational classes. Yesterday, during yoga, I had to constantly avert my eyes from R.’s yoga performance because she was undermining my ability to stay focused on my own. R. always places her mat directly in front of mine. Yes, I know I could find another spot, but it’s like church; once you’ve claimed your pew, sitting anywhere else just doesn’t feel right.
Anyway, R. comes to class with jewelry and make-up on and dressed in a cute little outfit that accentuates her petite waist and delicate frame. Her hair looks as if it had been styled at the salon that morning. I show up in my standard black Target stretch pants with my Dad’s violet NYU tee shirt on, which is several sizes too large, but I need it to cover my butt when it is pointed at the ceiling in Downward Facing Dog position. I sometimes slap on a smudge of pink lipstick, but it’s too little, too late.
As if R.’s appearance isn’t insult enough, she has no trouble keeping up with our yoga teacher and holding the positions as long as instructed. While she’s gracefully sustaining a balance pose, I have sunk, gasping for breath, into a Child’s Pose, which is one which allows you to rest. Her Cobra is ready to strike while my Cobra has obviously been killed by a mongoose and lies limp on the mat.
So you see, I am not happy that the Y allows people of vastly different ages to attend the same class. It is discouraging to those of us who are struggling with the basics. Yes, R. needs to attend a class specifically for other people in their eighties like she is.