I've recently become a bit addicted to yoga. I can't say I buy into the whole philosophy though. My yoga instructor is a full-on vegan/fasting for a week at a time on nothing but liquids/choosing to ignore a bladder infection, and attempting self-healing until she got herself admitted to ER with full-blown kidney infection/kinda yogini. I don't buy into that wholesome lifestyle, no matter how hard she tries to sell it.
But I do love her calming classes, and the quiet meditation at the end - which usually results in the best sleep I have all week.
I'm not very good at the twisty positions, but counter-intuitive to my completely clumsy nature, I am particularly adept at the balancing and inverted positions. Nothing clears your head like having to concentrate on standing on one foot, while grasping your other foot pulled in front of your hip by the opposite arm, which is in turn wrapped around your back.
And the inversions... I feel like I was born to be upside down. I particularly love the converted stand or shoulder stand. We always end our classes with it, and it entails lying flat on your back and then heaving your legs up above your head and just holding them there, finding balance without straining your shoulders or back. Then we slowly drop our toes down to touch the floor behind our heads and gently roll our spines out again, bringing knees past our faces and then back down to the floor.
The only problem with this position (for me anyway) is it kinda opens passages which don't usually get to see that much air time. And as a long-term IBS sufferer, my gut doesn't need much of a push - so to speak - to get the gasses moving. So the one day as we were rolling out, I was unfortunate to let out a not-at-all-discreet "ppphhhwaaaarp". It came as much of a surprise to me as it did to the rest of the class.
The class remained silent in an attempt to stay in the peaceful moment (which I'd already ruined), but I could see the companion closest to me going puce in the face from withholding her response. "Oh for gods' sake," I sighed "just laugh."
And she did. The rest didn't take much encouragement to follow her example. But the instructor was kind to point out, through her giggles, that "these things happen" and that there is even an exercise/pose which is apparently called "The god of the wind".
Clearly I won't be needing much practice at that one. Can't wait.
On Saturday, GBM and I took ourselves around a little forest adventure. I'd seen the course before, but it didn't look like much - more like team-building activities or kids' parties. But, ever the sucker(s) for a good online deal, we thought we'd have a bash when we saw a three-hour session advertised at 40% discount. It's not like we had anything better to do on a Saturday morning anyway.
So off we went, signed the indemnity form, listened to the standard do's and dont's and got our special helmuts with the tag on it, indicating that we were English. And as much as I'm interested in learning new words in Dutch, I really want to understand the safety intricacies that will entail me securely attaching myself to a platform several metres up in a tree. We took the special helmuts without shame.
A few short minutes later, I had fully earned my 'special' status. GBM had stepped into his safety harness and was securing the buckles, while I was still trying to figure out which legs went where and why it was all so uncomfortable. I couldn't reach any of the buckles, I couldn't get them tight enough, it was just a silly design. Fortunately GBM saved me from public humiliation by quietly pointing out each leg strap was actually labelled "left" and "right" (clear as mud, in English). Not only that, but the lettering was upside down. So I had it on the wrong way round, AND upside down. Superb.
Once we had that sorted out, we were ready for our private (English-Only) instruction course. They ran us through the safety procedures of ensuring that at least one of your two safety lines were connected at all times, proper placement of carabines on the safety cables and where and when it was safe to follow behind the person in front of you. Standard stuff. We passed the demonstration quickly enough and then (this is what I love about the lackadaisical H&S attitude in the Netherlands)... we were free to run loose in the trees.
There are 8 adventure courses with various degrees of difficulty. We started on course 3... thought we wouldn't get too cocky straight away. It was fun, just a few metres above ground, wonkly platforms and a bit of balance required.
Course 5 followed shortly, which entailed a bit more muscle-control and core balance. But by now, we had the hang of the safety harness technique and could get a bit more playful. I had a particularly good laugh watching GBM trying to negotiate across an uneven level of individually-strung stepping stones. He started on his left foot and as soon as he lifted his right to step forward, his entire body shot to the left, which meant that had to take an eeeeextra big step (as if moon-walking) to reach the next foot hold on the right. Now it was all he could do to stop from doing the splits (well, technically, the harness at his waist was doing the most to stop that - but at the same time, giving him a superb wedgie effect, all the more entertaining to watch from the back). Left foot up... body weight all on right... beeeeg moon-step to reach the next one on the left.
Watching his progress in slow-motion brought to mind the stomp-precarious-totter style that toddlers often have as they learn to walk by not falling over. Of course, I then had to follow suit, which was not helped by the fact that I now had the giggles.
Course 6 was the best - lots of nice long ziplines. Which was awesome, once I figured out how to launch myself without twisting my body in the process. Roaring uncontrollably up to a tree, arse-first, is not as much fun as some might like to think.
The final course required extra instruction and is for "experienced climbers only". GBM and I were high on the success from our previous courses and decided to give it a shot. One of the obstacles was a tarzan-like swing, from one platform to the next. Being no fool myself, I made GBM go first. He secured his safety harness and launched himself forward, swung and landed on the platform. But, before he could get his balance enough to step forward, the weight of his body and the momentum of the rope pulled him backwards. Frantically he grabbed for anything on the tree to hold himself there, and failed.
I supported his efforts by doubling over with laughter. When I realised that he was now officially stuck, I did try (genuinely) to help him back to the platform I was on, but it was quite a steep incline and I frankly did not have the strength to pull him back up. Assistance was hailed, much to GBM's embarrassment (and my amusement) as he clung to the rope like an uncertain newborn monkey.
Once he was rescued, we could move on and complete the course, but after almost three hours of core and upper body strength we were absolutely shattered. We took a very slow cycle home and collapsed on the couch for the rest of the day. I cannot recommend it enough - childish fun in the treetops.
GBM and I are trying to play tennis more regularly these days. Unfortunately he's lost his tennis-playing glasses. He has his day-to-day pair, which are super-stylish, but they fall off very easily. Not so handy when trying to serve. He used to have prescription contacts, but he hasn't bothered to renew those and would need a new appointment. So we have been hunting the house upside and down to find the missing pair that actually stay on his nose during sporting activity.
GBM is adamant that I have hidden them to ensure ongoing amusement on the court. I'm not admitting any form of guilt, but I can understand why he might think this.
You see, he's short-sighted. So when he plays tennis without his glasses, he spends a lot of time guessing where the ball is going to land and then playing based on that judgement and last-ditch reflexes. More often than not, he gets it right and he can play a decent game. But when he gets it wrong, it's hysterical. Well, for me anyway. Literally, incapacitating. I can't play for tears of laughter.
Take today for example. He was playing at net, opposite me. My partner lobbed him - GBM knew the ball was going over his head, he'd estimated the distance of where it would land on the court, but he couldn't tell exactly on which side of his racket. He scrambled and, at the last second, realised that the ball was on his left rather than where he was expecting it on his right... plus he had over shot it. This meant he had to do almost a full-360, like a dog chasing its tail, and played a forehand from under his left elbow. I'll be damned if he didn't actually get the flipping shot over the net and back to me. And it was a winner too, because I had already collapsed with giggles.
The last time we played, he similarly misjudged a trajectory - expecting a serve to land on his forehand, when it snuck casually past him behind his back. He still gave a good hearty swing on his forehand. God loves a tryer. Apparently.
I'm not saying I don't misjudge shots too. Cos I do. Lots. But I'm not nearly as entertaining. I'll fresh air a shot because it came too fast, or too wide. But at least I know what side it's coming on before it gets within a metre of my body.
What I wasn't expecting the one that hit me directly on my lumbar spine when GBM and I were on the same side. Square on the back, full speed, first serve. Was not expecting that, at all. It didn't stop me laughing at him when he did another hop-skip-swing-and-a-miss later. So I can understand why he would think that I've hidden his glasses... the entertainment value alone would be worth it.
Okay, I have to take a deep breath before writing this. It is not going to be objective - no pretense of that - but I am going to try to keep it lucid. I am going to try to explain why I don't make a habit of watching football/soccer on a more regular basis.
The sport itself is truly skilled. While most people in the world have trouble running in a straight line, these guys do it (not necessarily in a straight line, which makes it even more impressive) while propelling and controlling a ball - avoiding the overwhelming evolutionary temptation to simply pick the damn thing up. Also footballers are uber-fit, arguably some of the fittest athletes in the world. And yet, most top level footballers take pride in portraying themselves as eleven-year-old nancy-girls, desperate for sympathy from their overbearing mothers.*
I hate the fact that players are molly-coddled with a pet prodigy kind of affection when they make a habit of diving and performing after they've taken a glancing blow. I don't have a problem with actively looking for a penalty. Yes, it's frustrating - for both the fans and the player who has been forced into a wrongful position. But I think that is all part of the mental strategy of sport. Rugby teams do it. And I'll be the first to admit that I've put a few balls on to unsuspecting feet in the hockey-D (and received a fair few too). It happens.
But I hate that football (not soccer - I think that countries who still call it soccer are not [as] guilty of this) has made a culture of theatrical dives. Prima donna rolling and writhing is acceptable behaviour for a professional, grown man. This, in my eyes, puts international footballers on the same level as "professional" wrestling. When they do actually get hurt, I feel something similar to gloating... I feel like they deserve a little pain. Does that make me a bad person?
Don't get me wrong. I don't for one second think that these footballers can't handle pain. There's no doubt in my mind that they can. They are professional athletes, you don't get to that level without a little eina. Drogba is currently playing with a "FIFA-approved cast on his elbow". That's pretty hardcore. But the fact that they put such effort into acting hurt... that's what makes my blood boil. Just play the bloody sport. You've got the skill, we all know that. Now use it.
I've watched most of the World Cup games. I love the vibe. I've even downloaded a Vuvuzela app on my Koekie Kumquat... so that when Cloggies or Poms complain to me about the darn "South African trumpets" I can respond noisily without saying a word. But when I watch a South American team playing, I am reminded of why I cannot watch this sport on a regular basis. Because I cannot handle the theatrics every time someone so much as nudges past their elbow.
This is what I see on the screen:
It starts with a gentle tap from an opposition player in a stationary position... and the Brazilian is off! First, he opens the routine by pirouetting three times on the spot. Then he seamlessly bends his knees, crouches forward, and springs into elegant dive, twisting one-and-a-half times before planting his hands firmly on ground and completing seven elegant head-over-heels tucks... before eventually coming to a rocking stop, writhing back and forth while wailing and clutching at his left knee. No, it's his right knee.... No, it's his ankle - his left ankle must surely be broken! Bring on the stretcher! Oh... wait... it appears that no foul was awarded. He's shaking his head in disorientation and disgust, but after several months of therapy he may just be able to walk. He's up... he's limping... for all of one-and-a-half steps. Oh, he's fine.
(Hey, I warned this wasn't going to be objective. )
Once they've finished flailing on the ground and nobody has sufficiently bought their Raspberry Award winning act to give them a free kick, they decide that this is clearly because the ref simply can't see more than 30cm in front of his face. Which is something that we have all thought at some point in just about every sport. The footballers remedy this situation by aggressively demonstrating their case by shouting and flailing their arms directly in to the face of the ref. Again, this frustration is something that translates to every sport - but the difference is that even if you don't agree with the decision, in other sports (rugby, hockey, tennis) he who holds the whistle (or the mic, in tennis) has the final say. Massive, single-celled tighthead props might offer a monosyllabic objection to a rugby ref, but that's it. It's not a discussion, it's a decision. Footballers don't respect the ref, and I just can't bring myself to accept that.
I hate that Kaka got a red card in the recent Brazil-Ivory Coast game. The Brazilians had been diving as their livelihoods depended on it (as they do), and the Africans were getting visibly more and more agitated by this football style. Eventually one of the Ivory Coast players played them at their own game. He took a (horrible, over-dramatised) dive. Kaka got carded for it. Subsequently the Brazilians were the victims of an unjust decision and the Ivory Coast team were villified for their "cynical" behaviour. Say what now?? When the Brazilians were theatrically tripping over their own toes, the commentators were playfully offering constructive criticism on their diving technique. I wish the Africans hadn't played The Samba Kings at their own game, but they did. And they did it better.
But that match, and the way it made my blood boil, epitomises why I do not watch more football in a football-mad world. I would love to see a siting regulation set up for footballers. Where, upon subsequent TV-footage review, they could be penalised, post-match, for "cynical" and unsportsmanlike behaviour. In my happy (wishful) world - diving / tripping over your own feet / sending a swift elbow to your marking opponent's solar plexus would get you banned for the next three or four games, depending on perceived intention and severity. Then maybe I'd start watching.
But as it currently stands, I have full respect for the sport... I just have no respect for the players.
* Here's a video montage of some great nancy-girl Raspberry winning examples:
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