I feel like I’m lying to myself. My head is on the floor, and I’m trying to push my hips forward while my hands are wrapped around my feet. I take five deep breaths as the yoga book advises, and I look at Kit Laughlin, the mild-mannered yogi instructor, looking so peaceful in one of the book’s photos. I pretend to be Kit Laughlin, I imagine myself as a spiritualist, and I pretend to enjoy lying on the floor.
But I don’t like lying on the floor. It’s rubbish. It’s just lying on the floor. And I sudden remember that my most fond memories are not of times where I’ve felt limber and peaceful, but are usually instead of times where I’ve been awfully hungover, the times where I’d wake up and roll a cigarette and it would almost (or in some occasions would) make me vomit, before having to hop on my bike to go across London to work… work that usually involved teaching 16 year olds what atoms were composed of, or showing an 11 year old how to write a proper essay. You can’t help but look back at those lows and laugh, and think, ‘ahhhhh that was some jam you got yourself into’.
I think I may decide to give up giving up smoking, and maybe start to drink more heavily. Being healthy is boring, it doesn’t come with any stories.
Just lots of lying on the floor.