Bend It Like Grandma

Mild, comic reference to sex.

It all began with a suspicious little limp in my right leg — the kind that whispers, ‘Hello, ageing’. In 2016, newly retired and full of misplaced confidence, I landed in Chiang Mai, Northern Thailand — a new country, a new city, a new culture, and a new currency that, thanks to my hopeless numeracy, made every purchase feel like spinning a roulette wheel.

Exploring new surroundings on foot has never seemed a problem. Initially, I walked everywhere, rarely bothering to learn any of the foreign names of the roads or lanes. I just committed to memory the directions I had taken until I reached a good place to stop. I told myself it was the best way to learn the city. In truth, I was just too terrified to flag down a tuk-tuk (the motorised rickshaw so popular in Thailand). I was honestly shocked when friends began to notice that my walking gait had changed. I just closed my eyes to the possibility that I was slowly seizing up … or worse… getting old.

North Thailand is a pretty, hippy location with an active tourist population and many backpackers. One of the chief attractions of Chiang Mai was the many varied ‘alternative’ health activities such as yoga, tai chi, and Pilates, all liberally finished with leg or body massages. Not a fan of any of these activities — except walking — I eventually gave in and told myself, ‘Needs must”. Surely, I reasoned, a couple of yoga classes plus the occasional massage would turn the clock back. So, on one of my numerous aimless walks, I saw a sign saying ‘The Yoga Tree’ and, putting my best foot forward (obviously not the right leg), set off to find it.

What a beautiful place! Set in a leafy, shady garden was a lovely building that housed the exercise studios. Outside were seating areas plus a café serving freshly squeezed tropical fruit juices and coconut water. Two excited, charming, pretty Thai girls enthusiastically welcomed me, lavishing me with compliments and set about selling me a class.

“You look so healthy and youthful!”

“You’ll enjoy yoga — no problems at all.”

“Some classes are almost designed for ‘slightly’ mature people with leg problems.”

“Just sign here. Yes, we have change!”

They convinced me this was the path to a new, thrilling life for the rejuvenated older person. So, full of their delivered bull-shit, I agreed to join the Saturday class that just happened to be designated for the more mature person.

I arrived early on Saturday morning and caught my first glimpse of my yoga classmates. They all seemed remarkably attractive, youthful, slim, and sleek. Apart from being at least 30 years younger than me, they all looked as if they were fresh from an Olympic training camp. My small reserve of confidence began to seep rapidly away. I went to the darkest area at the back of the class, attempting to cringe into invisibility. It was immediately obvious I would be way out of my depth.

Everyone in the class had ropes, blocks, an overabundance of cushions, and blankets, all meticulously placed alongside their provided mats. The last yoga class I’d attended was in a draughty UK church hall thirty years ago — we brought our threadbare blankets from home, and that was it. I didn’t even know yoga mats existed, let alone that anyone owned one. A participant kindly pointed me towards the equipment store. Failing to recognise the purpose of just about anything, I grabbed a mat.

The workshop door opened, and a woman of Viking proportions thudded into the room, each step sending tremors through the floorboards. Our teacher stood at the front of the class in a brown leotard that clung ferociously to her lumpy waist, anchored by her frankly enormous bum. She was everything I felt a yoga teacher should be. She placed her mat and all the various mysterious accoutrements in place of honour at the front and smiled at the ‘girls’ whilst sweeping her eyes over us. Suddenly, she spied me at the back, stiff and ungainly, with only a mat. We hadn’t even done the first pose, and she had already found my hiding spot.

‘Have you done Yoga before?’ she asked.

My voice was little more than a sheepish whisper. ‘Many years ago.’

‘Well, ’ she boomed, ‘you just follow along as best as you can, but don’t overstretch yourself.’

With the pep talk over, she thumped over to the equipment store, began loading up with cushions, ropes, and bricks, and dumped them all alongside my yoga mat. She smiled encouragingly and returned to the front of the class. I stared at the pile of mysterious yoga toys, without knowing what they were for.

Whilst listlessly fiddling with the ropes and bricks, the door opened and… in he walked. Good-looking. Good body. Blonde, sun-streaked hair. A flawlessly golden, all-over tan.

He headed to the storage area, tucked a mat of choice under one arm, and began confidently selecting the various props deemed de rigueur in modern yoga classes. So, I thought pitifully, he was not a beginner.

Although considerably younger than me — and frankly, way out of my league even in my prime — my delusional inner romantic decided a possible coupling in the not-too-distant future was not entirely out of the question.

He placed his mat not far from mine.

Despite our many physical differences — not least our respective waist circumferences — a buzz of pure sexual excitement zipped through me, my lungs suddenly gasping like I’d already done twenty sun salutations.

The class began. Everyone sat on the floor in the lotus position, breathing deeply — everyone except me.

It took several attempts to get my bum to the floor, as my knees refused to bend on command. Then I tried to fold my legs into the required position and was instantly rewarded with a jolt of searing pain. Even as a child at school, I could never sit cross-legged for more than two minutes in the Assembly Hall — I’d usually end up sneaking my feet between the bottoms of the girls in front of me.

Glancing around the yoga studio, I saw serene bodies with straight backs, folded legs tucked like collapsible umbrellas, and peaceful faces. I, meanwhile, was perched awkwardly, legs sticking out like fence posts, grimacing through the pain. My attempt at beauty in repose was more “constipated tortoise” than “inner goddess.”

This was a mistake. I needed to get out of there. Fast.

As the class progressed into actual poses, it became abundantly clear: everyone else knew what they were doing. They moved gracefully, finessed every shape, breathed like enlightened monks. I remained cloaked in shadow at the back, forced to sit out more than I joined in, occasionally heaving myself upright to “have a bit of a go.”

The room was packed with the young and vital. Apart from me, the only other “mature” person was the desirable man. Looking over, I saw him stretching, folding, and breathing effortlessly.

The odds of a spontaneous romantic encounter?

Plummeting.

After an embarrassing, excruciating hour, we finally got to the good bit—the glorious moment when you lie flat on the floor to “meditate.” For me, this meant trying not to fall into a deep sleep. I don't want any of this meditation nonsense.

So, with immense relief, I stiffly and inelegantly lowered myself onto the mat, pulled a blanket over me, and collapsed, praying that no one — especially me or the handsome man — would let off a loud fart during this so-called moment of stillness.

I’d only been on the floor a few moments when a wave of nausea hit me, rising fast. Violent. Uncontrollable. I bolted upright just as the teacher, ever watchful, caught sight of my green face.

Lumbering to my feet, I clamped a hand over my mouth and fled to the Ladies’, making horrific gagging noises, nose streaming. With only seconds to spare, I flung myself over the toilet and vomited — loudly, repeatedly, and with surprising force. My whole face was slick with sweat, and I was left weak, shaking, and utterly wretched.

Despite knowing every Yogi in the room had heard the horror show from the Ladies, I had no choice but to return. My bag was still at my mat. I tiptoed around the studio, stepping between serene, supine bodies, arms and legs akimbo. Eyes closed, expressions blissful. I knew I’d shattered the peace — and honestly, I didn’t care. I felt like death.

At my station, the teacher had constructed what I can only describe as a cushion throne. As she fluffed it into shape, she whispered matter-of-factly, “Just a release of toxins. " Then, she floated back to her mat and resumed her journey to fluffy cloud land.

And there I sat — like a beleaguered potentate, looming over my still subjects — trying not to make a sound or vomit again, painfully aware of how awkward and out-of-place I was.

Were they really meditating? Had they blocked out the full-on horror sounds from the toilets? I was impressed. Not only could they twist their bodies into improbable shapes with ease, but they could also ignore farting, gagging, and retching like true spiritual masters.

Finally, the torture ended. People stirred, stretched, and began tidying up. I still hadn’t figured out what half the equipment was for. I hadn’t used any of it, and I didn’t see anyone else using it, so the mystery remained.

As we milled about the equipment store, one poor soul asked, “Did you enjoy it?”

I couldn’t answer. Words would have cost too much. I mustered a weak, trembling stretch of the lips — almost a smile… but not quite.

As we drifted out into the garden, the air was thick with post-orgasmic satisfaction. The yoga champions giggled softly, a chorus of low, breathy murmurs rising like steam from a hot spring. No one spoke — they didn’t need to. They all knew. They’d shared something beautiful. Something transcendent. A yogic moment of pure, communal bliss.

Trailing at the back of this self-congratulatory procession came I. I glanced in my compact mirror. Once a vibrant yellow-green, my face had softened into a less alarming grey-green shade and appeared smeared in pig fat. I moaned involuntarily, a low, guttural sound escaping from deep within—the natural counterpoint to the delighted giggles. I, too, felt that words could only ruin the moment.

The teacher soon found me collapsed on a bench, wrestling with my footwear. Without asking, she tilted my head back and poured watermelon juice into my mouth, declaring it a magical cure. She wasn’t wrong. Almost instantly, colour surged back to my cheeks. The nausea ebbed. I felt vaguely cheery, as if my soul had been wrung out and patted dry.

I stayed seated, breathing deeply, letting my stomach and I become reacquainted. That’s when I saw him. The only one from the class who’d gone to the café. There he was in all his effortless glory: long, tanned, muscular legs stretched out on the swing seat, lounging like a Bond villain on a juice cleanse.

I looked longingly and accepted miserable defeat. He had watched me lurch, puff, and crumple my way through every pose before going green and requiring maternal intervention from our ‘guru’. It was over before it had ever begun.

I couldn’t believe it when he called over to me:

“Hi! Why not join me?”

He was German, called Gert, and had been in Chiang Mai for about a year. He had an excellent sense of humour and, miraculously, didn’t mention my performance in class. As I gulped down more watermelon juice, I found him increasingly attractive. I could surely make up for what I lacked in yoga skills in flirting! So I sat beside my handsome man and rebranded myself mentally as an alluring, youthful catch. Seriously. I looked at this beautiful creature, at least twenty years younger, far fitter and slimmer, and genuinely thought I was in with a chance. Clearly, all that vomiting had scrambled my brain.

At the end of our drinks, he asked if I’d like a lift home on his scooter.

I knew it. I’d nailed him.

A vision flashed before me: me running toward the scooter in a loose, rangy way, mysteriously possessing the body of an 18-year-old. I’d leap effortlessly on behind him, hair flowing, hips fluid, looking like a woman who knew how to do life and yoga.

Reality: My 60-something body strolled cautiously to the scooter. Once there, I attempted to raise my right leg in a perky swing. It lifted three inches. Max. Pain shot through me like a cattle prod. My body simply refused. Gert’s handsome face registered something between mild alarm and tragic realisation as I tried again — and again — to clamber aboard. The last time a sexually attractive man asked me to jump on the back of his bike, I was sixteen. I was not giving up.

Eventually, Gert had to lean the scooter over until it practically kissed the ground so I could awkwardly throw my leg over the seat. With a grimace and a heave, he hauled us both upright. I felt like Queen Victoria in her final years. He leapt on, revved the engine, and off we went — whoosh!

I clung to this poor man’s shoulders like a barnacle. He later said he lost count of how often his collarbones cracked during the journey. My chest filled with pure adrenaline. It might not have broken the sound barrier, but it felt like it. We zipped between speeding traffic and took corners at angles that defied physics.

All thoughts of sexual conquest were now gone. I just wanted to live.

As we sped on, my face shifted from Munch’s The Scream to something like joyous ecstasy. If I survived this, it would be the best fun I’d had in years.

Unfortunately, we had to stop.

We arrived at my condominium, and I was practically hiccuping with excitement. Then: disaster. I couldn’t get off. Once again, my right leg wouldn’t lift. I tried to slide my left leg to the ground and swing the right over — it wouldn’t budge. The security guard, stifling a laugh, rushed over to help. His plan: insert his arms into my armpits and yank me off the bike like a stuck cork. Gert objected. He feared the manoeuvre might cause “total muscular disintegration.”

After several botched attempts, I eventually slithered along the length of the seat toward the handlebars and dismounted stiffly, like a 90-year-old climbing down from a parade float. I stood beside the scooter, swaying slightly, dignity long gone. Gert didn’t stick around. He couldn’t seem to drive off fast enough. His final words floated back in his wake:

“You need to do yoga regularly and get those muscles working.”

And with that, he vanished into a cloud of road dust, his golden hair shimmering in the Thai sun.

Disappointed, I turned toward my flat — and suddenly realised: I had developed a limp.