by Henry Briggs
I’ve been trying yoga recently. Yoga, for the uninitiated, was started years ago by a guy named Gandhi, who realized that British guns and ramrod stiff bearing were impossible to compete with. So, he and his followers pretended to acquiesce but then upended the British by tricking them into take yoga lessons. Really.
“You’re too inflexible,” said Gandhi in ethereal tones. “Let me teach you yoga. It will loosen you up.” So the British exchanged guns for yoga mats. The rest is history.
That’s kind of what happened to me. Really.
I had whined about my bad back successfully for years until my neighbor said to me one day, “If I hear you complain about your back one more time, I’m going to make you shovel your own driveway and take out your own garbage. Go do yoga.”
Not wanting to lose free snow and garbage removal, I bought a mat and signed up for yoga. Who cared if I hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a TV remote in 20 years? My only worry was looking like a wuss in front of the other guys in class.
The way yoga works is you put on a T-shirt and shorts, drive through icy rain and then freeze your shorts off running from the car to the “studio” — which is not, say, a place with artists or singers or TV cameras.