There are things that make me feel energized and awesome...and then there is yoga. I should have known yoga might not be for me, when I walked into a studio filled with aromatherapy candles that changed color and scent on each stairwell and made me violently sneeze. The hallways were adorned with inspirational quotes, painted in a sort of whispy, airy font.
The various students were comparing their designer wardrobe choices, “oh, these Gaiam pants are the greatest” and “this top simply wouldn’t let my chi breathe.” “What are you wearing” one of the women asked me. “Ummm...these are my rugby spandex,” I managed to stammer out.” She nodded “oh, how cute.” I hadn’t realized I had signed up to walk the runway.
I knew that it was called hot yoga and performed in, what they described as, a lightly heated room for maximum health benefits, but I didn’t know they were trying to suffocate me. When I walked in the room I remembered my mother telling me about the deaths in a Sedona sweat lodge in 2009, a great start for my confidence.
I put my mat down in an unoccupied corner of the floor, for maximum mirror space and so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with any other sweaty students who kept giving me “encouraging stares.” They all stretched and lifted their arms in great exaggerated poses above their heads. It was beginning to look a bit like a Britney Spears floor routine.A woman walked in and asked where she should sit. She had a thick African accent, she scanned the room gave me a head nod and placed her mat next to mine. “Have you ever done this before?” she asked. “Nope, I got a deal off of Groupon.” She smiled and said, “yeah white people love this shit” and began stretching.
The instructor encouraged us to “hear the peaceful calm around us.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to hear peace, specifically when the business below us was blasting Busta Rhymes “Whoo Hah.” “You hear that Busta?” the girl next to me asked I nodded my head to the beat for a while and then I tried again to clear my mind and focus on her voice. The instructor sounded familiar, but there was nothing calming about her voice. She wandered down the rows of people; adjusting an arm here, a leg there and creating space between my shoulder blades.That’s when it hit me. She sounded exactly like Miley Cyrus. I spent the next 15 minutes waiting for her to break into “Party in the USA”
She would say “feel the rain on your back,” “feel the tree in your spine” and other abstract metaphors. Although, the rain was beginning to work, as sweat was dripping down my body.The other students gently patted their brows with special towels, hardly breaking a sweat. I wondered if I was being cooked alive. The instructor would call out one position after another. The other students effortlessly shifted from one position to the next, like a choreographed high school dance scene that I had missed. I had no idea what the positions were and spent the majority of my time peaking out from under my halfway closed eyelids, lifting my legs and twisting my arms into positions that looked similar to the very pixie like, flexible lady across from me. I couldn’t help but feel as if I was in some crazy, new age porn as she shifted, twisted and gyrated towards the floor, pressing her butt up in the air, rocking it back and forth and sighing heavily with each movement, presumably to impress the other students. The woman next to her offered her water to which she responded, I kid you not, “the waterfall in my soul is enough to quench my thirst.”
30 minutes in and the room smelled like a combination of garlic and the way I imagine a changing room at the Superbowl might smell.I suddenly became very aware of the people around me, the woman who swiftly changed positions flicking sweat into my mouth and on my face, the man who closed his eyes and rocked back and forth between each position, grinding his ankles into the ground saying “oh, yes,” “oh, my,” like some sort of orgasmic, sadist activity. I was supposed to feel at ease and felt nothing but contempt for these people who I knew very little about and wished to keep it that way.
“If you are having trouble with any of these poses, try breathing into the area that hurts.” My back was killing me, my legs were bending in ways that legs shouldn’t bend. I began blowing on my knee caps and trying Lamaze style breathing exercises. I felt like a dog in heat. The others followed suit, grunting and sighing large breathy sighs like Marilyn Monroe singing “Mr. President.”
At the end of the class the instructor told us all to move into the Shavansa pose (my favorite).You lay flat on your back like a dead body and “quiet your mind.” The girl next to me had fallen asleep and was beginning to snore and the lady to my left had somehow managed to sneak in her cellphone.I lay back and thought, I can’t believe people pay for this shit.I prayed the next few minutes would quickly pass. We sat back up and the instructor lead us in a guided “ohm.” I imagined myself in a horror film, a cult surrounded me, ready to sacrifice the virgin. I looked around the room, spotted a potential virgin and breathed a sigh of relief. All of the students pressed their hands together, just above their heart and bowed down saying “Namaste.” I quickly rolled up my mat, put my block away and headed home to find some inner peace...lifting weights to Mumford and Sons. I guess yoga isn’t for everybody.
