Different strokes for different folks
By Liz Biggs
I’ve been listening to a lot of Sly & The Family Stone lately since Sly’s recent death. My favorite line from their hit “Everyday People” is “Different strokes for different folks, and so on and so on and scooby dooby do/We’ve got to live together, I am no better and neither are you.” Loving and understanding people who are different from us can be difficult, so I’m going to write about something even more divisive and controversial than politics — my inability to love yoga and tea. I hope I don’t incur the wrath of tea-loving yogis everywhere. Believe me, I long to be a groovy, Zen chick who loves yoga and tea. I’ve tried very hard to like these things. I have failed.
I’m ashamed to say how validated I felt when I watched Apple TV’s Ted Lasso refuse to drink tea in England because it “tastes like dirt.” Finally, someone I can relate to! Seems like all my life, I have been judged for not liking tea. Hot tea, iced tea, sweet tea, green tea — you name it, I can’t stand it. It feels like battery acid in my stomach. I keep trying it though, thinking someday I might wake up and like it. Why do I feel like I’m supposed to like tea? Is it a Southern thing? I like coffee, so all is well in the world.
I have several friends who teach yoga (or are super into it), and they are some of my favorite people — kind, talented, smart, beautiful souls who are fun to hang out with. I met one of them years ago when I joined the downtown Y and attempted her yoga class. It was one of those days that I woke up and said, “Maybe today is the day I will start liking yoga,” (probably after pouring tea down the drain). Unbeknownst to me, like Mr. Magoo, I walked into her 90-minute restorative yoga class. My barre, Zumba and body pump classes had all been one hour, so I had no idea what I was getting into.
Out of pure politeness, I forced myself to stay for 50 minutes. 50 minutes of misery, but only 10 minutes left, so I thought I could power through. I felt like a gazelle trapped in a coffin. A feral cat trapped in a cage. Holding a body-contorting, pretzel-like pose for an extended period of time is like being strapped to a medieval limb-stretching torture device. I wanted to move, run, dance, crack my forehand, smash an overhead — be anywhere but there. I guess I like sports I can win, or at least score points. And meditation is what sleep is for. If the fetal position were a yoga pose, I could probably excel at that one.
When I realized the torture was not going to end in 10 minutes, it felt like a panic attack. I’ve never had a panic attack, but Ted Lasso has, so I kind of know what it must feel like … it feels like being in a yoga class. I tried not to offend anyone, quietly putting away the yoga mat and tip-toeing my escape. She busted me (kindly), so I fibbed and said I had somewhere to be. (Somewhere like a dance floor or a street to walk down, but I hoped everyone would think I had to go back to work or pick up kids.) The good news is she forgave me and is still a good friend. I’ve tried a few more yoga classes since then, and no luck. My niece did a headstand in her yoga class, and all I could think of was how many bones I would break doing a headstand. My guess is three.
This is very difficult to admit, but I don’t like cheese either. Goat cheese, feta and brie taste like vomit to me. If charcuterie boards are the only food at a party, I will starve. I can maybe eat a nut or a grape, but only if it hasn’t touched cheese or gross, greasy salami or sausage. I’m usually pretty quiet about this dislike because cheese lovers scold me way more intensely than yoga and tea lovers. Hey, I like cream in my coffee, isn’t that good enough?
Why do I beat myself up for not liking what normal people like? Why do I keep trying to like things just because other people think I should? Why am I embarrassed to admit how much I love Quarterbacks Season 2? Why don’t I just dance in the kitchen to groovy, jangly, guitar-driven, psychedelic power pop while drinking peach-pear LaCroix and eating celery? Everyone should love celery, right? Ha, I know better than that — different strokes for different folks.
