I'm as muscle-bound and stiff as a genetically modified bull. Run, Pamplona! But I don't run. Unless this very specific situation presents itself to me -- raging forest fire behind me and pastry shop with a sale on cream puffs in front of me -- and it never has.
I'm middle-aged with a host of early-onset osteoarthritis. I have a pit crew, and assistive devices. Yes, I've tried yoga, mostly for no other reason than because I like to say trikanasana. It sounds like a swear word and I get to say ass.
But yoga makes me feel sorry for myself as my drishti drifts to other people's heart-shaped asses, and taught triceps, and I get really whiney about my batwings, and I feel trapped not only in my degenerating body, but in my mind which starts to circle the drain.
Boohooo, I sniff to myself, assuming child's pose, my vertebrae are losing vertebral height, baa-waaah, Sheila over there in her Lululemon shorts looks like one million bucks. I bet she's gaining vertebral height. My judgements and fantasies slither and caress past each other like a pit full of snakes.