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May 14, 2018 | by  | in Features |
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A Tight Ass Yogi

As 2018 rolled around, I settled on three New Year’s resolutions. To get fit, be more sane, and less broke. I concocted a plan to combine all these goals in one: by signing up to free trial memberships for each yoga studio in Central Wellington. I was excited at the thought of becoming a leaner, more zen me, at minimal cost.

Firstly, I trialled Hot Yoga on Wakefield Street for two weeks. Hot Yoga is a cute little studio located next to my favourite shop of all time, Common Sense Organics. On arrival I was a bundle of nerves, but excited to delve into the weird and wonderful word of yoga. Upon entering the studio, the heat hit me like a tonne of bricks, but following the lead from my fellow yogis I placed my mat in the back corner of the back row and began to focus on my breathing. When the young, jazzy teacher arrived ten minutes later, she encouraged us all to set an intention for class. Me being the sophisticated, mature women I am, I settled on not thinking about my stupid, hairy crush (who doesn’t like me back) for the next 60 minutes. Obviously, the class dragged on for two days and two nights, with all of my thoughts centred on stupid, hairy boy. I left this class feeling both hot and agitated but determined to stick with it, if only to rid my mind of hairy crush. After the next couple of classes I began to enjoy sweating major balls around complete strangers. I was hooked. On the second to last day of this trial, disaster struck at Wakefield Street Hot Yoga. When in corpse pose after a particularly quiet and delicious late night zen class, I let out a very unexpected, loud toot from my back bottom. Needless to say, I left at lightning speed, never to return.

Giving myself a few days to recover from that traumatic incident, I signed up with Hot Yoga on Featherston street (under a fake name). By this stage I was like an addict, needing my yoga fix. My first thoughts, feelings, and emotions on entering this studio were that it is very lux and spacious. I trialled several different classes and enjoyed all the assorted styles and teachers this studio had to offer. When the trial ended I was sad to leave.

Luckily, Wellington has almost as many yoga studio as coffee shops. Studio number three was called Yoga for the People. On arrival I was greeted by a ridiculously good-looking woman with eyes as bright as the universe. It turned out she was the teacher. This yoga studio was somewhat dated but the people were friendly, and the bathroom was flash. I was signed up for a 90-minute Bikram class, which was no walk in the park, however, the shouty but beautiful teacher got me through. Afterwards I felt that amazing sense of calm I had become familiar with, known as being “yoga stoned”. Throughout my trial I began to love the classes and the quirky folk at Yoga for the People, and luckily I survived yet another trial without any toots from my back or front bottom. Unfortunately my trial was cut short, after suffering an injury brought on by a boozy night at Dakota riding the mechanical bull. I was confined to corpse pose for a week.

After a few timid weeks recovering from my severe but not life-threatening injury, I signed up for my final trial with Empower studio. There were lots of things I liked about this little studio, including the diverse range of classes, and the cool equipment on hand. Post- bull riding incident, and an indulgent Easter, I waddled my way to my first yoga class at Empower. It was a small class, so there was nowhere to hide. The purple haired teacher manhandled me into poses I didn’t think were possible for my voluptuous frame, but I walked home with a fresh spring in my step. I felt approximately 10 kgs lighter, and more motivated than ever to continue my quest.

One class Empower Studio offers is an animal movements class. After a day of feeling feline, I signed up. On arrival, I noted there were 6 males to just 2 females, which immediately made me feel scatty. After another glimpse around the room I noticed just how fit and toned the class was, except one — me. When the super charming and handsome teacher arrived and demonstrated what sort of animalistic moves we were going to be doing, I got the sweats and wanted to be curled up at home with an aching back. But I persisted. My 5’11, voluptuous self struggled through the chimpanzee pose, which consisted of one a one-handed plank type move and flowing into the flying ostrich — and I was done. Apparently, the lack of enthusiasm on my face prompted the gorgeous English instructor to give me special attention, which meant I was manhandled in every which way possible. This included tits, ass, and a foot to his face.

My yoga experiment was over. Although I discovered a new-found love and appreciation for all things yoga, it became evident that practicing yoga from the safety and security of my room minimizes public humiliation, and is the most cost effective option.

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