Alcohol and yoga don’t mix
I have been battling with a dilemma: is it appropriate for a Jewish Princess to do yoga? For starters, on a superficial level the hippie associations of yoga go right against the image I try so hard to maintain. Beads, kaftans, tie-dyed T-shirts, vegetari
I have been battling with a dilemma: is it appropriate for a Jewish Princess to do yoga? For starters, on a superficial level the hippie associations of yoga go right against the image I try so hard to maintain. Beads, kaftans, tie-dyed T-shirts, vegetarianism?
And worse than that: could
it profoundly alter the very essence of who I am? What would happen if I suddenly emerged from a "salute to the sun" routine, transformed into a deeply spiritual and significant person?
This is how it started: I was having tea with Kate, my fat friend with the large hair. Except, much to my surprise, and my secret envy, she is not my fat friend any more, having lost a vast amount of weight and looking truly splendid. Unfortunately this has done nothing for her intellect: she remains as boring as ever, twittering on about her hair with an occasional deviation towards nails.
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After fully and exhaustingly exhausting all hair and nail conversation I finally lost it and asked her what she was clearly wanting to talk about: how she lost it - her weight that is. And so I hear for the first time about the wonderful and beautiful Bev Bonner.
It turns out Bev is a yoga teacher and teaches North London how to eat well, live well, and maintain the "body beautiful". She does this by introducing a tailored yoga and eating regime on her unsuspecting victims.
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Impressed I nag Kate until she gives up and hands me Bev's number. I decide to take the risk and call her. Winter in London is beginning to take its toll on my body and so I arrange to meet Bev at her house in Belsize Park.
The truly encouraging things about yoga that immediately present themselves are that it doesn't involve sweating but does require a nice outfit.
A quick trip to my friends down at Studio 8 in Primrose Hill, and I have the right tools for the job: a shimmering white Juicy tracksuit. So you can see, despite my seriously distressed bank balance at least my priorities remain correct.
But my considered outfit is wasted on Bev. She resists my efforts to enter into deep and significant discussion about appropriate dress code for yoga and is more interested in what my issues are around eating. I explain to her I don't have any issues around eating. I merely crave and love food more than anything else in the whole wide world. Is there an issue here?
Bev is gorgeous and slim and trim and perfect. So I have to concede that maybe I do have an "issue". She looks at my hair and nails (perhaps Kate's obsession is contagious) and I jokingly tell her that I wish I had an eating disorder, but lack the necessary discipline. She takes this very seriously and explores in uncomfortable depth what she calls my "emotional relationship" with food.
Luckily by last Sunday Bev's 'work out' from the inside had worked its way outwards and I was feeling and, more importantly, looking brilliant.
This conveniently coincided with a date with a lovely chap I met at a party. Bev suggested, as it was a Sunday, that I should wear something low-key and comfortable. I duly ignored her advice entirely and put on my skinny Paul and Joe jeans, white top that matches my white pearl drop earrings, White Chanel ballet shoes and blow dried straight hair with a side parting.
Everything was going very nicely until we stood up to leave and to my horror I discovered I was drunk. You see; I don't usually drink. Well, only when social blending-in absolutely requires it: like on dates. Bad idea. Besides falling over, you have no idea the sort of rubbish I can speak.
I have such a low tolerance for alcohol and am either going to have to go into training and become a serious drinker, or give it up altogether.
Maybe I should go back to university and learn to drink, like everyone else did.