"Dear yoga. I'm sorry, I'm faking it."

Dear Yoga,

We’ve been together almost two years now. And there’s something that I feel I need to tell you.

As you know, every Thursday night is our date night. I go to a church hall to bend, stretch and reach for the stars with a lovely group of people.

These people are very nice. The instructor is also very nice. And when we finish the class, we’re all very nice – thank you, that was a lovely class, I feel so good.

But the truth is, yoga: I’m faking it.

To me, you’re just a long sweaty game of Simon Says.

I bend. I balance. I ‘downward-facing tiger’. I ‘eagle folding its wings’. I monkey, buffalo, cat, spider, swan and lizard.

I breathe from my tummy. I breathe through my yang heart centre. I breathe out of my base chakra (ie my bum).

I ‘let go’ every part of my body. I allow my eyeballs to drop deeply into their sockets and I allow my tongue to float. I tell the soles of my feet and my hair follicles to release. I never draw up my pelvic floor when I’m menstruating because I know that is wrong.

I dress up for you and I have everything I need for our every encounter. I have a mat and a pillow and a foam bolster. I even got an eye mask and a belt to spice things up.

I know that you are supposed to be good for me. Happy people do you. I see you with celebrities all of the time.  I know if I do you I’ll be healthy, successful and better looking.

And yet I  am a fraud in this relationship. When we are together, I feel none of the bliss. None of the nothingness that is supposed to fill me with peace. And I am quite sure that I am no better looking than I was when we started this thing. Together we’ve tried all the positions, but I’m afraid it’s just not working for me.

If only I enjoyed Yoga this much… Image via YogaDogz/Instagram.

As I secretly look at other people through semi-closed eyes (I must also confess to never closing my eyes when we’re doing it). I can tell that other people are feeling you. They “OM” with such resonance it’s like a train is rolling past my mat. They really get you in a way I never could.

You leave other people “walking on air”. Me? The only air I notice is the wafting  incense that smells like Baygon.

No, don’t get bent out of shape, there’s no one else. It’s not pilates (I would never hook up with your best mate). And no, I’m not going to hang out at a barre.

I know in my heart that you will find someone to replace me. Someone who will appreciate all you have to offer.

But for now, as I contemplate going to see you or staying here on the couch, all I can think is: Namaste.

Love, Amy.

What exercise trend have you broken up with?