Date: 28 September.

Location: About to head to the Town Hall Hotel, North Melbourne. Oh look, it’s steak o’clock.

Guys, there was a lot of yoga done this week.

Monday: The quagmire that is Punt Road traffic makes me late for a 5.15 Hot Flow class at One Hot Yoga, forcing me into the far easier 5.30 Beginners’ Hot Flow class. And I’m not exactly devastated about that. Yoga is just so not about how strong or how bendy you are. However, when you’re stronger and bendier than everyone else in your class you feel just a little bit smug which gives you a glow which is kind if what yoga is about. Whatever works.

Tuesday: I try aerial yoga for the first time at Body Flow Yoga with friend and high-heeled hippie environmental law PhD candidate, The Planeteer. Aerial yoga is yoga in a silk sling suspended from the ceiling. It looks beautiful. It bloody hurts. The first time the petite blonde instructor asked us to flip upside-down, puting all of your weight and faith in the silk I treat her to a look like you’d give someone who asked you if you’d like vacay in Iraq this summer ie no thanks, I like life. We both look a little like drunk spiders in our webs but, with her lithe, lengthy limbs, The Planeteer looks like a daddy long legs. And me a squat little tipsy tarantula.

Wednesday: I brave a hot class at Grass Roots Yoga on Bridge Road. Grass Roots is a new local studio and they’ve kindly offered me a few weeks of free yoga in an attempt to lure me into membership. I’m not convinced. The classes, at 39 degrees, are seriously hot and, unlike at other studios where the last ten or so minutes or so are devoted to relaxation and meditation, they run for the full 60 minutes with an optional savasana (‘corpse pose’) tacked on at the end. When you have sweat running out of your eyeballs and the teacher takes that last five minutes of class to ’round out with some core work’ you really feel how long 60 minutes can be. It’s pouring with rain when I leave and I turn up to dinner soaked in a mixture of sweat and Melbourne spring downpour. I am a delight.

Thursday: Back to trusty One Hot Yoga where I take a powerful flow class with long holds that make my hips scream for it to end, but also feels amazing. Reward self with watching The Bachelor and #thebachelorAU Twitter feed at the same time. For the first time, begin to understand the appeal of Twitter.

Friday: I go back to aerial yoga to saw self in half whilst hoping I look graceful. Attend with Planateer and her sisters. It’s like hanging out with a family of bendy baby giraffes. Uncontrollable giggles when the instructor tells us we’re totally safe, to feel free to relax in a supported handstand as the silk won’t let you fall — and I tumble out, leaving one legs somehow hooked up in a net of silk. Previously, said instructor has told the class that one will only fall out if ones heart is not connected to one’s breathing. Cool I’m pretty connected, but what about that bitch called ‘gravity’? We’re not the greatest aerial yoginis but, clad in a rainbow array of Black Milk and Lulu leggings, we’re certainly the most colourful.

Saturday: I reluctantly drag myself from warm bed to attend a pre-Grand Final yoga session. Hot tip yoginis: don’t apply a layer of fake tan the night before a hot and sweaty yoga session. You’ll feel like Greased Up Deaf Guy. Or, for the politically correct non-Family Guy watchers amongst us, like a seal covered in olive oil trying to move graceful down a soapy slip ‘n’ slide.

Sunday: It’s time for a much needed afternoon yin yoga session. Or, sixty minutes of lying down and breathing whilst doing creatively languid things with a yoga bolster. No sign of dad — despite he being the one who got me into yin originally. Begin to suspect his purported dream of becoming a yoga instructor may not actualise…

Love

Alex

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