Reaching for the stars, or your ass

Chronicle columnist Jon Carroll rarely connects these days, but today's column expresses certain truths about yoga class -- he calls it The Church of Stretching -- that I'm trying to capture in my novel in progress:

The liturgy is still not settled, although often the priestess repeats the ritual invocation "Relax your shoulders" more times than might seem necessary. We often begin worship with the Cobra, which is a sort of reverse prostration to let the snake god know that we are still alive despite certain indications to the contrary. ... As in many mystic societies, we have certain sacred syllables that we utter, usually at random. "Abs quads delts lats," we murmur, and the healing sounds of the chanting drift up to heaven, where they are heard by a minor angel who wishes once more that he had gone into real estate.

High in the firmament is the Goddess Hamstring. All supplications are addressed to her. We purchase sacred Dynabands to commune more closely with the Goddess, although a towel or belt will do too. (This is another phrase the priestess will often use: "A towel or belt will do too." The meaning of the Towel and the Belt are as yet unclear to me, as I am a recent convert.) ... Soon, all the congregants get into the spirit of the worship service, and the Priestess goes around to each one of them saying, "You're doing it wrong."

My own take is that yoga is like golf: It is a singular activity, even though usually done in a group. Most of all, it is extremely unnatural, and you must force your body into many grotesque positions otherwise assumed only by someone who is mentally ill. There are many, many lessons to remember about the position of various body parts, and you are assured that you will never be more than mediocre unless you remember each of the dozens of lessons and get each body part in perfect order. Even when you do manage to remember them all, and get them right once in a great while, you can take little pleasure in your achivement, because you are only at "par." But more often, you will be reminded, over and over and over again, that you suck.