I am the great human pretzel

The greatly maligned kettle has died. No one knows how it happened. One small, skilful tabby admits to nothing. The Cats’ Father who thrashes about blindly in the kitchen when he’s writing also claims no wrongdoing. One more thing lost.

The Pet, that peace-keeping force of a dog who glued our lives together and kept all the neighbourhood pets from taking to gang life and thuggery, has gone to the great dog in the sky and I can’t cope.

I found out something about hitting can’t-cope. There was no crying or talking left in me. All I could think of was doing. I drove all over the country. I cleaned the sinks. I tried to redecorate my bathroom. And finally, I faced the call I knew I had to make.

A friend who lives far-far-far away is a fitness and yoga instructor. In the past she has tried to help me to plan my diet, exercise routines and encourage me to try yoga. Nothing stuck. Except me. I was stuck. When the Pet died, I was untethered from a very significant furry security blanket.

“I need the yoga,” I said, in the manner of someone asking for drugs in a bad movie. We worked out a time for our first online session. She sent me some videos. Bless her, she knows me well enough to know that over-prepared is the lowest bar I will go in at.

No one is suggesting this was a misguided move on her part, but I’m pretty-100-per cent-sure she sent me the exercises for her clients who have a lot of life experience. And great grandchildren.

The old exercise mat from the covid days (remember all those mats and workouts?) is rolled out and de-furred. Where to put it? Everywhere suddenly feels so wrong. I try to remind myself that I’ve known this woman since I was 13 and she will not judge my furniture.

This is not my first Zoom. But I’ve never thought about my surroundings before for meetings. In looking for a good place for what I’m now thinking of as my survival mat, I feel like I’m showing more than I meant to. Where is that filter I always think of using as a joke that shows a snow-covered mountain?

The where-to-put-the-mat is not as throw-away as I’d like to make it. I’d also decided on what to wear: a sports bra and shorts. My friend didn’t ask me to but I wanted her to know exactly what she was working with. Warthog that I am and all.

This was not only finding inner peace yoga. This needed to be stretch the flab away yoga. And yes, there are so many people and places I could do that with right here at home. But. But one: I’ve been afraid of yoga ever since I tried it in my teens and did not respond well to it. And two: I was afraid of what I’d look like next to the great fit and flexible.

It’s three in the afternoon here and hot. The mat is out. The cats are asleep. And we’re off to the races. Oh God, it’s the breathing bit. A mild heat creeps up my neck and tells me to stop.

Tells me it’s too scary. But she makes me do something else while I’m breathing so I stop thinking only about the breathing.

I roll parts of me I haven’t rolled in ages outside of a fete or spontaneous kitchen wining. She keeps asking if I’m ok and telling me not to push beyond what’s comfortable. That’s comforting and naturally (is it?) makes me want to try harder.

She treats me like she fully expects me to know what I’m doing. So much so I ask her if she’s even looking at me. She is. I stretch and stretch until she tells me I’m stretching too much. She asks about where I feel most strain.

And apparently there are no wrong answers. No one told me that was an option. At the end she mentions that she threw in an exercise she does not usually use on first-timers. She’s got me locked in now.

I expected soreness and aches and a longing for a bathtub. I felt energised. The only person more excited is my friend who is teaching me and, funny enough, actually looking out at a snowscape.

No way to know yet if yoga will save me from the dog-sized hole in my life but I’ve staved off activity for as long as I dared. I’m all in now.