86’d from Yoga for Losing My Zen…
A few years ago, in a moment of uncharacterized delusion, I considered attending a yoga class. My crazy pal, Thelma, convinced me to attend a yoga class series with her and though yoga has never really been my thing, I wanted the opportunity to spend time with her and conceded.
Yoga, in my opinion,
moves much too slowly, which - I realize - is the point, to get centered, balanced,
present in the moment, attuned to your breathing and find Zen. Always being more of a balance beam,
skateboard, scooter, bicycle kind of gal and moving at that speed more
comfortably, it was a shift.
Having hiked, biked, run 5ks until my knees protested, zumba’d, cardio boxed, weight trained and water aerobicized to extreme boredom, I figured with a suitable partner, yoga might actually be worth trying again. I did clarify that she was not insisting on hot yoga.
One visit to check that out was all I could manage almost tossed cookies. The room is 110 degrees and all the yoga bodies are sweating out their toxins. The only thing I like 110 degrees is a jacuzzi. Imagine getting your Zen on in a sweaty locker room that smells like feet. Similar to the McDonald’s ball pit kind of funk. In no way would that ever be happening. I like my exercise to be sans fragrance. No Shalimar in the pool, no patchouli in spin class. The gals who wear full makeup and perfume on the treadmill make me want to strangle them with their iPod ear pod wires. Or douse them with tap water – with no electrolyte enhancements.
Assembling the required accouterments was an investment in and of itself – icky sticky mat (no way was I using a germ-riddled community one), yoga pants that after carefully trying several styles did not result in a wedgie or camel toe result, socks that had holes for each toe (more on this later…), sports bra that resulted in a monoboob shelf of mammary matter, cute sweat-wicking quick-dry top, a water bottle, hair tie and kitschy bag to transport all required paraphernalia. I had literally bought in to the concept – mat, strap and mantra. I would downward dog and warrior pose my way to inner tranquility, or require the aid of a chiropractor to once again stand upright.
The day of the inaugural class, I remembered not to ingest any caffeinated beverages or chocolate, so I wouldn’t be fidgety. The instructor had a very mellow instruction DVD voice intended to extend the Zen. We started with some stretches and held them way beyond where my brain could be quiet and focused. “Are we done yet?” “Ew, sweating.” “Are we going out for drinks and appetizers after this?” Each pose was held for what seemed like an eternity. Have I mentioned that I have the attention span of a gnat?
The instructor would demonstrate each pose while we observed; then we were invited to descend, stretch, twist and pretzel ourselves in to a variety of uncomfortable positions and then hold without getting a cramp. The breathing cues are probably something to which I should be paying close attention. I’d get the hang of it soon.
One thing I was NOT getting the hang of were these socks with individual toe openings. I am one of the few people in the population who holds complete disdain for flip flops. Nothing drives me to a state of distraction faster than foreign matter caught between my toes. The sock thingies had a limited opportunity to impress me or they were toast. Every single pose, my first brain response was “There is SOMETHING between ALL of my toes – ICK!” Very hard to come to center oneself and counteract that issue. The socks were relegated to the bottom of my bag for the rest of the class series. Take that yoga fashionista fascist… I’m going “toe-tally commando”. Also came to realize that panties and yoga pants are a bad combination and learned to eschew those as well. That’s a whole nother story we won’t be addressing here. Semper ubi sub ubi (always wear underwear) has long been a life mantra.
Attendance at class became pretty regularly. More like a lapsed Lutheran than a cradle Catholic. But, amazingly, I didn’t wimp out. We approached this evening’s class and fell into our usual routine of stretching – becoming more familiar and somewhat liking it, and then moved on to the poses – which were still taking time to win me over.
THEN, the thing happened. The instructor demonstrated the BIRD POSE. For the uninitiated, the bird pose entails hinging at the hips, putting hands and feet on the ground so the body forms a V. Then the legs fold up with the knees OUTSIDE the elbows and you raise your FEET off the ground and BALANCE on your hands – like a bird with your legs as the wings. You got that – we are people not birds with a VERY different center of gravity.
My actual thought process went something like this: ‘Bend over, OK. Hands on the floor, OK. Knees outside elbows, OK. Gain balance and… lift your feet off the ground? Oh, what? HELL NO. I can so see face plant and broken nose happening here, WTF??!!! How am I going to explain a broken nose and black eye when I face plant? From yoga class? I don’t even think so.’ Then in the ensuing stunned silence of concentration, someone passed gas. Broke wind. Trouser cough. Clouded the air. You get the idea.
At that point, I got the giggles. Yes, I am a 12 year old boy in a mature woman’s body. I don’t mean quiet chuckle under my breath. I mean full-on uncontrollable giggles over the bird pose attempts over the concept of my impending face plant if I even attempted it and then the fart just put me over the edge. I was sitting on my mat with tears streaming down my face trying to get it together and realizing that I was affecting the equilibrium of the room.
The Zen got zapped. Namaste was promptly nipped in the bud.
The instructor threw me a stony glare and that set me off even more. She looked at me like the Grinch who stole Christmas looked at Lucy Who. Complete disdain and how dare you zap my Zen. She unfolded herself with more grace than I could muster in ten years of yoga practice and floated to my mat. “If you are unable to regain your composure, would you please remove yourself from the room?” Wow. That was some verbiage. I’d been dissed and dismissed in one line. I left my stuff on the floor and fled to the nearest door, still snickering nervously.
Having hiked, biked, run 5ks until my knees protested, zumba’d, cardio boxed, weight trained and water aerobicized to extreme boredom, I figured with a suitable partner, yoga might actually be worth trying again. I did clarify that she was not insisting on hot yoga.
One visit to check that out was all I could manage almost tossed cookies. The room is 110 degrees and all the yoga bodies are sweating out their toxins. The only thing I like 110 degrees is a jacuzzi. Imagine getting your Zen on in a sweaty locker room that smells like feet. Similar to the McDonald’s ball pit kind of funk. In no way would that ever be happening. I like my exercise to be sans fragrance. No Shalimar in the pool, no patchouli in spin class. The gals who wear full makeup and perfume on the treadmill make me want to strangle them with their iPod ear pod wires. Or douse them with tap water – with no electrolyte enhancements.
Assembling the required accouterments was an investment in and of itself – icky sticky mat (no way was I using a germ-riddled community one), yoga pants that after carefully trying several styles did not result in a wedgie or camel toe result, socks that had holes for each toe (more on this later…), sports bra that resulted in a monoboob shelf of mammary matter, cute sweat-wicking quick-dry top, a water bottle, hair tie and kitschy bag to transport all required paraphernalia. I had literally bought in to the concept – mat, strap and mantra. I would downward dog and warrior pose my way to inner tranquility, or require the aid of a chiropractor to once again stand upright.
The day of the inaugural class, I remembered not to ingest any caffeinated beverages or chocolate, so I wouldn’t be fidgety. The instructor had a very mellow instruction DVD voice intended to extend the Zen. We started with some stretches and held them way beyond where my brain could be quiet and focused. “Are we done yet?” “Ew, sweating.” “Are we going out for drinks and appetizers after this?” Each pose was held for what seemed like an eternity. Have I mentioned that I have the attention span of a gnat?
The instructor would demonstrate each pose while we observed; then we were invited to descend, stretch, twist and pretzel ourselves in to a variety of uncomfortable positions and then hold without getting a cramp. The breathing cues are probably something to which I should be paying close attention. I’d get the hang of it soon.
One thing I was NOT getting the hang of were these socks with individual toe openings. I am one of the few people in the population who holds complete disdain for flip flops. Nothing drives me to a state of distraction faster than foreign matter caught between my toes. The sock thingies had a limited opportunity to impress me or they were toast. Every single pose, my first brain response was “There is SOMETHING between ALL of my toes – ICK!” Very hard to come to center oneself and counteract that issue. The socks were relegated to the bottom of my bag for the rest of the class series. Take that yoga fashionista fascist… I’m going “toe-tally commando”. Also came to realize that panties and yoga pants are a bad combination and learned to eschew those as well. That’s a whole nother story we won’t be addressing here. Semper ubi sub ubi (always wear underwear) has long been a life mantra.
Attendance at class became pretty regularly. More like a lapsed Lutheran than a cradle Catholic. But, amazingly, I didn’t wimp out. We approached this evening’s class and fell into our usual routine of stretching – becoming more familiar and somewhat liking it, and then moved on to the poses – which were still taking time to win me over.
THEN, the thing happened. The instructor demonstrated the BIRD POSE. For the uninitiated, the bird pose entails hinging at the hips, putting hands and feet on the ground so the body forms a V. Then the legs fold up with the knees OUTSIDE the elbows and you raise your FEET off the ground and BALANCE on your hands – like a bird with your legs as the wings. You got that – we are people not birds with a VERY different center of gravity.
My actual thought process went something like this: ‘Bend over, OK. Hands on the floor, OK. Knees outside elbows, OK. Gain balance and… lift your feet off the ground? Oh, what? HELL NO. I can so see face plant and broken nose happening here, WTF??!!! How am I going to explain a broken nose and black eye when I face plant? From yoga class? I don’t even think so.’ Then in the ensuing stunned silence of concentration, someone passed gas. Broke wind. Trouser cough. Clouded the air. You get the idea.
At that point, I got the giggles. Yes, I am a 12 year old boy in a mature woman’s body. I don’t mean quiet chuckle under my breath. I mean full-on uncontrollable giggles over the bird pose attempts over the concept of my impending face plant if I even attempted it and then the fart just put me over the edge. I was sitting on my mat with tears streaming down my face trying to get it together and realizing that I was affecting the equilibrium of the room.
The Zen got zapped. Namaste was promptly nipped in the bud.
The instructor threw me a stony glare and that set me off even more. She looked at me like the Grinch who stole Christmas looked at Lucy Who. Complete disdain and how dare you zap my Zen. She unfolded herself with more grace than I could muster in ten years of yoga practice and floated to my mat. “If you are unable to regain your composure, would you please remove yourself from the room?” Wow. That was some verbiage. I’d been dissed and dismissed in one line. I left my stuff on the floor and fled to the nearest door, still snickering nervously.
It was probably not my best strategy to wait in the hallway
for class to be over to check in with my pal, and collect my materials, but I did. When class
finished, I was glared at by yoga snobs of all shapes, sizes, ages and ability
levels. To my dismay, they apparently were
not similarly blessed with robust senses of humor. Not even the gas passer owned up. Clearly not chicks hip to my
jive. My pal came out last and let me
know that the instructor had asked her to let me know that I was not welcome back to
class until I could refrain from outbursts. Are we still doing bird pose? Not even happening. My refund would be applied to wine and appetizers.
My pal called me after the next class. She was out too. When they got to that point in the class, she recalled my response and the face plant fear I had told her about and dissolved into fits of giggles. We decided that yoga was not our thing and met at the wine bar across the street for the rest of the class series. At least if we got 86’d from a wine bar for being too giggly, that was legit. We’d been kicked out of better places than yoga class. Gay Bingo, for example. But that’s a whole nother story for another day.
My pal called me after the next class. She was out too. When they got to that point in the class, she recalled my response and the face plant fear I had told her about and dissolved into fits of giggles. We decided that yoga was not our thing and met at the wine bar across the street for the rest of the class series. At least if we got 86’d from a wine bar for being too giggly, that was legit. We’d been kicked out of better places than yoga class. Gay Bingo, for example. But that’s a whole nother story for another day.
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