Page 15 of The Dating Ban
The video is already losing me.
I shake myself, trying to focus. Right. Breathing is important. Got it. Let’s move on.
But the instructor just keeps going. She’s talking about “finding my inner stillness” and “connecting with the earth,” and honestly, I’m already bored.
After what feels like an eternity of sitting and inhaling, I decide to skip ahead.
I grab the remote and fast-forward to something that actually looks like movement.
Sun Salutation. That sounds promising. Warm. Glowy. Like something that will make me feel like one of those effortlessly bendy women who drink green smoothies and have matching workout sets.
I get into position.
Feet together. Arms raised.
This is fine.
I bend forward to touch my toes.
Okay. Not fine.
I have never touched my toes, not even as a child, and I’m not about to start now. My hamstrings are actively rebelling against me.
I make an undignified sound and attempt to bend my knees slightly, hoping that will help. It does not.
The instructor, still frustratingly calm, instructs me to step one foot back into a lunge.
I try. I really try.
Except my foot doesn’t glide back gracefully like hers does. It sort of… flops.
I wobble. My arms flail.
I tip over entirely.
With a very loud “Oof”, I land on my side, sprawled out on my yoga mat like a starfish that has just washed up on shore.
I stare at the ceiling. The instructor, unfazed by my suffering, moves on to the next position as if I am not currently dying.
I let out a long, defeated sigh.
This is only month one.
I’m doomed.
…Or, at the very least, I need a yoga routine that includes built-in snack breaks.
I lie there for a good minute, staring at the ceiling, before accepting that yoga has defeated me. At least for today.
With a groan, I roll onto my side and push myself up from the mat, every muscle in my body voicing its displeasure. Clearly, inner peace is not my destiny. At least not in the form of a Sun Salutation.
Right. Time for snacks.
I head into the kitchen, already fantasising about something delicious. Maybe a chocolate bar. A bag of crisps. A biscuit. Anything to reward myself for my—admittedly tragic—effort at exercise.
I open the fridge with high hopes.
…And immediately regret every single healthy-living resolution I made this month.
