Yesterday, we were watching a movie that mentioned yoga. I wasn’t really paying attention. Sawyer, (8) who has been taught some yoga in the 2nd grade (I don’t seem to remember an abundance of yogis in the halls of Miles Elementary circa 1984, but fine.) took exception to the pose they were doing in the movie. “That’s not yoga.” he says.
Apparently, the “King Cobra pose” was being performed incorrectly and Saw put on a demonstration of the correct King Cobra.
Now, if you’re not an on-the-verge-of-Zen master in training like your Uncle Jake, I’ll briefly describe the proper King Cobra as I understand it: Start prone on your belly and arch your back, not unlike but at the same time not at all like a swimsuit model emerging from the side of a pool while attempting to touch your toes to the back of your head. Easy.
Having seen Saw’s flawless execution, my wife challenged me to do the same with “You do that.” or words to that effect. I didn’t hear her well. She was partially obscured by the bottles of condiments I had set-up on a tray table for the bratwurst I was cramming in my face.
Not one to out done by a bendy 8-year-old and a scoffing wife, I made an attempt which was as quarter-hearted as it was colossal in failure. She laughed.
Of course, I challenged her to join us. A more serious attempt was made by all resulting in my left hamstring auditioning for a display case position at Aunt Annie’s Pretzels while my wife did a sing-song exclamation of “Cramp! Cramp! Cramp!” as we reached an excruciating oneness with the universe.
Yoga is not for sissies.