Unconventional Yoga Clothes
Anything I can mother in, I can bend in.
One of the little joys I’ve been savouring this summer is attending free yoga classes in the basement of an old library. I first visited this quiet, unassuming branch of the Toronto Public Library on a Thursday afternoon, intending to use their drop-in play space after my child slept through our usual program. As we descended in the rickety lift, awkwardly retrofitted into this century-old heritage building, I wasn't sure what to expect. The heavy door swung open. By happenstance, we had just stumbled into the first class of a free six-week yoga series.
For 45 minutes each week, I had the opportunity to sit down and mind my breath, while my daughter milled around the program space, interacting with all its sensory stimulants. Alongside other moms and caregivers, I reached for my toes as my gaze fell on colourful I depictions of animals and automobiles. All the while crawling babies — who were free to roam under the supervision of staff — wove around our bodies, occasionally stopping to tug on a familiar hand or leg.
It was at this class that I realized my daughter could be content away from me in a daycare-like setting (though we are still in waitlist limbo). I watched as she crawled away from the corner of the crunchy blue mat I laid upon, towards the other children and the sea of toys that engulfed them. She ate crackers while I downward dogged. Learned to throw a ball as I rested in child’s pose. During the second session, she suddenly stood up for the first time by herself — magically timed to our unfurling from forward fold.
The experience has been completely different from the swanky $25-a-pop classes I used to dabble in, usually set in a bright box of a room decked out in blonde wood. Where soft music flowed from invisible speakers and the scent of eucalyptus-swirled-with-sweat hung in the air, invoking the tranquility of a Scandinavian spa.
Here, babies cried. Toddlers threw tantrums. The clanging of wooden and plastic parts served as the idiosyncratic heartbeat of the carpeted, low-ceilinged room. It was impossible not to be distracted by the children's activities taking place a stone’s throw away; I’d find myself subtly scanning for my kid while getting into a twisted pose, relieved to see they weren’t in immediate danger or trying to poke another child’s eye out.
And yet, the gentle instruction, coupled with a brief respite from parenting duties, was exactly what I needed.
On that first spontaneous visit, I joined in simply wearing the clothes I happened to have on that day: a striped boatneck tank and long linen shorts with an elasticated waist. While I felt stiff and un-limber in my postpartum body, wearing “non-athletic” clothes didn’t seem to hinder my movements at all. So since then, I have attended in other linen pieces, canvas pants, and loose raw silk shorts — never showing up dressed to exercise exactly, but always outfitted comfortably enough to follow along.
Indeed, the other women stretching out their childminding-acquired kinks in the class appeared to be mostly in plainclothes, too. A few wore leggings and athleisure-style outfits (very typical mom attire), but I’d see a young mother sitting cross-legged beside me in denim cutoffs, or an older nanny performing cat-cow poses in a floral print blouse.
It struck me that I’d never practiced yoga — or witnessed anyone else in the studio classes I’ve taken — in anything other than stereotypical yoga garb (aside from the odd guy in basketball shorts). Appearing like adverts for Alo or Lululemon, the unofficial uniform of these settings invariably involved a pair of compressive shorts or leggings, paired with a sports bra or other synthetic, sweat-wicking top bearing a recognizable logo.
I’m all good with donning performance-oriented clothing in appropriate contexts — I have enjoyed the buttery comforts afforded by a svelte pair of leggings, and, on the opposing end, dealt with the consequences of completing an 80 km bike ride in skimpy jean shorts. Still, I would like to make a case for engaging in moderate exercise wearing ordinary, unspecialized clothing. The romantic in me loves a leisurely-paced bike ride in a breezy skirt (so does Eillie Anzilotti), or hitting an easy trail in loose trousers and a button up.
It’s not about suffering in unpractical garments for the sake of vanity (I have biked in heels and would probably never do that again). Rather, I see it as breaking through that imagined barrier, telling us we must be outfitted like an Olympian to engage in any sort of sport. That we ought to be dressed in specific, codified ways just to workout our muscles.
I, too, have held this limiting belief that I must either dress for public presentation or dress to sweat. That to engage in proper exercise means setting aside dedicated time to inflict the maximum amount of strain my body can take — after which I’d peel off my salt-coated, plasticky costume in exchange for regular clothes.
Since adopting a “mom uniform” of attire that features comfortable waistbands, loose material, and low-maintenance fabric compositions, I’ve found it much easier to incorporate physical activity into my everyday. I like that I don’t have to turn down an impromptu dip in the wading pool or shy away from climbing on every single jungle gym we come across, at my daughter’s behest. I’m seldom wearing the right clothes for these things (the optimal outfit for water play would be a bathing suit + nylon shorts), but they’re often not wrong, either.
Parenthood is wild and its conditions are always changing. Rarely will things go according the careful plans I made lying awake in bed at 3:00 AM — I’m learning to always expect the unexpected. I like to think that ready-for-anything spirit is embodied in the clothes I’m wearing.