I’m not getting laid enough. It’s a real problem (if you don’t compare it to Ebola), and there’s no obvious solution. Especially now that I’ve decided one-night-stands are for losers, and stopped shagging my ex-boyfriend and all his mates due to spurious moral reasons such as the fact they’ve all got married and impregnated their wives.
I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but not having sex has serious physical and emotional side effects, such as frustration, insomnia and – as I was once reliably informed, by an obese Russian facialist – adult acne. You know when you see grown-ups with great cystic boils on their jaw line (such as, for example, me)? They’re not getting any. I can only conclude that acne is nature’s way of encouraging procreational activities, such as fucking, as if she hadn’t caused enough havoc with Earthquakes and droughts and hurricanes, the bitch.
But what’s one supposed to do? Tinder’s populated by a revolting pile of misfits and arseholes, I’m not paying £32 per month to meet progressive marathon runners on Guardian Soulmates and nobody approaches hot strangers in the material world anymore – in case you hadn’t noticed, this is not 2006. It’s 2015, give or take a few months, and we’re digital now; we’ve more or less completely transitioned to cyborg, particularly when it comes to romance.
So, instead of copulation, I’m spending a great deal of time in downward facing dog. Folded over with my spine rolled open, my pelvis tilted upwards and my heels stretching towards the floor; doing my ujjayi breath, in through the nose, out through the nose, my throat constricted so that I sound like the ocean. Alright, it’s not sex, but it is rather satisfying.
There are loads of things I love about yoga. That hour or so of total freedom, the calm, the escape from the tyranny of the internet, my banging body after six weeks of daily Ashtanga practice (I figure since I’m not actually having sex at the moment, I ought at least to look like someone you’d fantasise about doing it with).
But the main thing I love about yoga is yoga teachers. I love their stringy arms, their chiselled cheekbones and their benign, soothing, voices. ‘Everything’s gonna be alright’, they suggest, before flipping into a handstand so that their T-shirt slips down to reveal rock-hard abs. I love how they only expect you to do what you can do, and how their hands softly guide you to let go of the trauma you hold, in a tightly coiled wire of resentment, just below your shoulders.
Still, despite the practiced tranquillity they vibe, I’ve never yet met a yoga teacher who didn’t give the impression that they’re but a hair’s breadth away from the edge. These are people who have suffered terrible damage, massive emotional fallouts; they have only managed to claw their way back into civilised society by virtue of carbon-strength willpower and wholesale appropriation of Eastern mysticism. It’s a method I’m familiar with, due to currently implementing it myself.
Yoga teachers are proof that there is no better way to keep on keeping on through tough times than yoga. And that’s why I recommend it to you, single people – because I know that as winter draws in we’ll have a harder time keeping on that most. I mean, we’re fucking excellent copers, obviously. But the world is conspiring against us – releasing rom-coms, inviting us to weddings without a plus one, offering only 25% council tax reductions, despite the fact we are 50% fewer people than a couple. And sooner or later, it’s going to snow.
Yoga is just about the only thing we can rely on. Which is depressing, yes – but at least yoga is something substantial, which is more than can be said for sex, and indeed, for almost all the people, in this digital age.
*Image is “Yoga Pose Shows Relaxing Spirituality And Calm” by Stuart Miles from freedigitalphotos.net.