At the yoga class we are way outnumbered by tall, slender, implausibly flexible women, sporting elegantly effortless up-hair and flattering exercise clothing. Not to mention the yummy mummies who boast of having already made their Christmas cakes in October, their schedules full and organised down to the last detail. Presumably because most of their waking hours are devoted to keeping the house perfect and chauffeuring their little angels to their multifarious after-school activities.
But back to the bendy, skinny bints with their actual yoga mats in special handcrafted bags who are always cold so insist that the air conditioning is turned off yet who always position themselves directly under the vent. While those of us who are carrying a little extra weight, who accidentally rip their Poundshop foam mats while struggling and straining to achieve even the merest semblance of any demonstrated pose, get progressively flushed and sweatier with effort.
No, the superskinny, ultrasupple, perky-ponytail girls easily fall into difficult poses without the litany of involuntary groans and knee clicks that accompany any normal person’s attempts and I swear that even the backs of their heads look smug. Plus, we end up unhappily opposite the full-length window in which we can see our reflections, confronting the illusion that there are two enormously fat women outside who keep trying to copy our peculiarly graceless movements.