Aging Gracefully? I’m Trying.

Soon I’ll be a year older again. And while I don’t really struggle with the increasing number on paper, I do notice that aging is slowly becoming a physical burden.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I woke up without something hurting. What did my body feel like when it just worked? No clue – probably too long ago.

Mostly, it’s my back. As if the years lived are weighing on my shoulders. It’s not horrible pain, but constant enough that I keep trying massages, physiotherapy, and yoga. Massages are by far the most pleasant option: lie down, get kneaded, feel like new – for about ten minutes.

But my life as a teacher – sitting for hours, hunched over laptops, books, or student papers – undoes all the progress. Realistically, I’d need a massage every evening. Since that’s too expensive and impractical, I went to a local orthopedist. Dr. Müller, a German doctor in Delhi with a great reputation, kindly prescribed physiotherapy for my poor posture.

Two to three times a week, I train at the clinic’s small gym with my personal trainer. She’s kind but firm. Most of the time, I’m convinced I simply don’t own the muscles she wants me to activate. I negotiate for fewer reps. She stands firm. The goal: strengthen my upper back, prevent the dreaded hump, and ease the pain.

Am I motivated? Not really. I skip sessions, don’t do my homework. Let’s just say discipline is not my strong suit. Unsurprisingly, the results are underwhelming – and by the second prescription, I start questioning whether it’s even worth it.

At the German Embassy, there’s Zumba on Fridays – and now, Yoga afterwards. Zumba is fun (even with all the jumping), especially with my coworkers. It’s a great way to kick off the weekend. Whether it’s the peppy music or our hyperactive dance teacher – or the combo – it’s a mood booster.

Then comes yoga. Bharat, our yoga teacher, is small, slim, and speaks in a soft, gentle voice. But I’d heard the stories: how he sometimes lies on you to deepen stretches or forcefully pushes your legs apart. A little too intimate for my taste. So we politely ask him to go easy on the physical corrections.

But as soon as class begins, Mr. Gentle vanishes. With military bark, he orders us into cross-legged pose – and instantly despairs at our posture. I thought sitting cross-legged was easy! Nope. One painful twist follows another. I look around at the suffering faces and wonder whether to laugh or cry.

My legs tremble, Bharat counts endlessly. I moan, I suffer – and he just says, “No pain, no gain!” After class, everyone’s wiped out. The cheerful Zumba vibe? Gone.

At home, I tell my husband. He looks at me like I’m a wimp. To prove him wrong, I convince him to join next time. He’s sporty – plays football and tennis – so he’s confident. Until Bharat barks his way through the poses and drills us mercilessly.

The only true “relaxation” moments are the start (cross-legged breathing) and end (corpse pose). In between, there’s Child’s Pose (thankfully), and the hell that is Pigeon Pose. I don’t even know how to get into it, much less survive it. When Bharat finally releases us, my husband flops helplessly to the side. I can’t help but laugh.

Honestly, this pose should not be called “resting pigeon.” More like “dying cricket with a torn-off leg.” Then people would know what to expect.

At least all that pain keeps your mind blank – like a weird form of meditation. Someone compares it to childbirth. I object. Childbirth hurts more – but you get hormones and a baby afterwards. Yoga? Not so much.

Still, my husband now agrees I’m not just whining – and keeps joining. He’s the only man in the group. Without him, I probably wouldn’t go either.

By session three, it still sucks. So we decide to book Bharat for private classes at home. Now we suffer together twice a week. That has to do something eventually, right?

I once read: “You’re not getting old – you just need to stretch.” Sounds like a plan. And my new life motto.