Friday, June 24, 2011
Yoga for Dummies
I've wanted to join a yoga class for years, but for some reason I never got around to it. My new apartment building has a Bally's in the basement. As a tenant I get free membership and as a member I get to attend classes for free. So I was out of excuses for not putting some wear and tear on that yoga mat sitting in my closet.
Sure, I'd held some informal yoga sessions in my living room via satellite, but I was unprepared for the awesomeness that is live yoga. Now I'm hooked. I go to yoga all three days the gym offers it, even though two of the days coincide with my circuit training classes, which packs my Tuesdays and Thursdays with three classes each. (Relevant to the story? No, but I wanted to point out how buff and disciplined I am.)
I didn't want to get hooked on yoga - I sneer at all things granola and consider yoga a badge of the granola and hipster communities - but I must admit I see what all the fuss is about. Every class leaves me feeling stronger, more confident and balanced. I notice I'm able to hold a pose longer or move to a more advanced pose after just a few attempts. This rapid progress is great for impatient people (on my resume I refer to my impatience as my "results-driven proclivity").
Not that there isn’t a downside. The classes are packed with a diverse range of idiots. I was too busy admiring my fluid lines in the mirrors during my first class to pay much attention to my fellow contortionists, but now that the novelty of staring at myself has worn off, I have plenty of time to look around and pass judgment. Which is really annoying, because I'm supposed to be calmed by the practice of yoga and invigorated with love for mankind, right? Well, placing me in the center of a room of idiots is counterproductive to that end. I doubt the Dalai Lama is surrounded by simpletons in his yoga classes.
The first offense occurred during my second yoga session. The yoga instructor (and I'll get to her in a bit) instructed us to breathe in deeply and exhale from the back of our throats, "sounding like the ocean." Now, I wasn't quite sure what exhaling from the back of the throat involved, but I gave it a go. To me, it feels similar to the motions I use when I breathe hotly in a person's face to find out if my breath smells.
For one gentleman on the other side of the room, it meant making ridiculous noises that would be more appropriate for someone dying of respiratory failure. The hearty timber of his melodramatic inhalations gave a vivid picture of how much snot was built up in his passages. Fortunately, he only comes on Tuesday nights.
The second person to cross me was a man (let's call him Tweedle Dee) who came last Saturday morning with his husband (let's call him Tweedle Dum). I'd seen Tweedle Dee in previous classes and he posed no problems. He did his work quietly and never stared at my butt or crotch when I was in plow position (now I knew why). This Saturday, however, he brought Tweedle Dum along so they could bond over what a lazy dork Tweedle Dum is.
I knew we had a problem right away because during the very first pose, a warm-up pose mind you, Tweedle Dum gave up and plopped down in no less than three seconds. TD had had a rude awakening; he realized yoga was not lying on the mat with your eyes closed. Oh, wait, maybe he didn't realize that because that is exactly what he proceeded to do for the remainder of class. Occasionally he would wake to prop himself up on his elbow and watch the rest of us work.
"It doesn't work through osmosis," I mutteredpassive-aggressively quietly.
He attempted a couple more of the easier poses (and by attempted I mean he gave up on his own modified version after an average three second hold time) but seemed resigned to lay grunting on the mat. I am not being hard on TD. There are plenty of moves I cannot do, or have to do modified versions of. But I don’t take naps during the ones I can't do well, and nobody else does either.
The best part of this performance was when TD would exhale loudly after watching everyone come out of a hard pose, then walk to the back of the classroom to chug from his water bottle. I could hear the room's collective unconcious ask, "Really, dude?" Then he'd go plop down on the mat again like getting that drink of water was just so labor intensive he could hardly stand it.
At the end of the class, somebody asked Tweedle Dum what he thought of yoga. "That was a workout, whew, wow," he grunted. I'm not worried about a regular appearance from TD, though. He strikes me as the sort of joker who will beg off every other week on the premise that his muscles are still too sore from last time.
I'll tell you who I do like in my class. The yoga instructor, Jen. Now the name Jen might evoke images of a younger woman, but Jen is actually in her sixties. Unlike most 60-year-olds, however, Jen has the body of an active 25-year-old. She is lean and incredibly toned, and can bend her body in ways that give normal people goose bumps. I guess that's what five hours of yoga a day does to the body.
What I like about Jen is that she is a no-frills, no-nonsense instructor. There's no schmoozy chit chat or cheesy jokes. She drily snaps, "Excuse us" whenever someone gets a little too relaxed in a pose and lets one rip, not "sounding like the ocean." Jen walks in, puts some artsy fartsy music on, removes her hot pink platform boots, rolls out her mat and starts issuing instructions in her monotone voice.
It's great. No "How's everyone doing?" (like we're really going to unload some work problem on the whole class) or "Wow, that's some weather we're having" (thanks for the insight, Tom Skilling). If she did say things like those just quoted, I'd be thinking comments like those just parenthesized and then I wouldn't be able to relax and "open up" and become one with my body.
Not that that's why I'm so into the yoga. In fact, I don't get why people do yoga to relax and improve their mental health. If we were more honest with ourselves, we would be able to admit that we like yoga because it rips our muscles apart so that we can do cool party tricks, like the tortoise poise, and get sexier muscle definition. I also like the limited motion required; it's a nice break from my circuit training classes. If I wanted a good up-down-up-down-up-again workout, I'd just go to a Catholic wedding. No, I do not buy the mental health premise. Obviously the people who practice yoga for relaxation have never spent an hour stretching next to Tweedle Dum.
Sure, I'd held some informal yoga sessions in my living room via satellite, but I was unprepared for the awesomeness that is live yoga. Now I'm hooked. I go to yoga all three days the gym offers it, even though two of the days coincide with my circuit training classes, which packs my Tuesdays and Thursdays with three classes each. (Relevant to the story? No, but I wanted to point out how buff and disciplined I am.)
I didn't want to get hooked on yoga - I sneer at all things granola and consider yoga a badge of the granola and hipster communities - but I must admit I see what all the fuss is about. Every class leaves me feeling stronger, more confident and balanced. I notice I'm able to hold a pose longer or move to a more advanced pose after just a few attempts. This rapid progress is great for impatient people (on my resume I refer to my impatience as my "results-driven proclivity").
Not that there isn’t a downside. The classes are packed with a diverse range of idiots. I was too busy admiring my fluid lines in the mirrors during my first class to pay much attention to my fellow contortionists, but now that the novelty of staring at myself has worn off, I have plenty of time to look around and pass judgment. Which is really annoying, because I'm supposed to be calmed by the practice of yoga and invigorated with love for mankind, right? Well, placing me in the center of a room of idiots is counterproductive to that end. I doubt the Dalai Lama is surrounded by simpletons in his yoga classes.
The first offense occurred during my second yoga session. The yoga instructor (and I'll get to her in a bit) instructed us to breathe in deeply and exhale from the back of our throats, "sounding like the ocean." Now, I wasn't quite sure what exhaling from the back of the throat involved, but I gave it a go. To me, it feels similar to the motions I use when I breathe hotly in a person's face to find out if my breath smells.
For one gentleman on the other side of the room, it meant making ridiculous noises that would be more appropriate for someone dying of respiratory failure. The hearty timber of his melodramatic inhalations gave a vivid picture of how much snot was built up in his passages. Fortunately, he only comes on Tuesday nights.
The second person to cross me was a man (let's call him Tweedle Dee) who came last Saturday morning with his husband (let's call him Tweedle Dum). I'd seen Tweedle Dee in previous classes and he posed no problems. He did his work quietly and never stared at my butt or crotch when I was in plow position (now I knew why). This Saturday, however, he brought Tweedle Dum along so they could bond over what a lazy dork Tweedle Dum is.
I knew we had a problem right away because during the very first pose, a warm-up pose mind you, Tweedle Dum gave up and plopped down in no less than three seconds. TD had had a rude awakening; he realized yoga was not lying on the mat with your eyes closed. Oh, wait, maybe he didn't realize that because that is exactly what he proceeded to do for the remainder of class. Occasionally he would wake to prop himself up on his elbow and watch the rest of us work.
"It doesn't work through osmosis," I muttered
He attempted a couple more of the easier poses (and by attempted I mean he gave up on his own modified version after an average three second hold time) but seemed resigned to lay grunting on the mat. I am not being hard on TD. There are plenty of moves I cannot do, or have to do modified versions of. But I don’t take naps during the ones I can't do well, and nobody else does either.
The best part of this performance was when TD would exhale loudly after watching everyone come out of a hard pose, then walk to the back of the classroom to chug from his water bottle. I could hear the room's collective unconcious ask, "Really, dude?" Then he'd go plop down on the mat again like getting that drink of water was just so labor intensive he could hardly stand it.
At the end of the class, somebody asked Tweedle Dum what he thought of yoga. "That was a workout, whew, wow," he grunted. I'm not worried about a regular appearance from TD, though. He strikes me as the sort of joker who will beg off every other week on the premise that his muscles are still too sore from last time.
I'll tell you who I do like in my class. The yoga instructor, Jen. Now the name Jen might evoke images of a younger woman, but Jen is actually in her sixties. Unlike most 60-year-olds, however, Jen has the body of an active 25-year-old. She is lean and incredibly toned, and can bend her body in ways that give normal people goose bumps. I guess that's what five hours of yoga a day does to the body.
What I like about Jen is that she is a no-frills, no-nonsense instructor. There's no schmoozy chit chat or cheesy jokes. She drily snaps, "Excuse us" whenever someone gets a little too relaxed in a pose and lets one rip, not "sounding like the ocean." Jen walks in, puts some artsy fartsy music on, removes her hot pink platform boots, rolls out her mat and starts issuing instructions in her monotone voice.
It's great. No "How's everyone doing?" (like we're really going to unload some work problem on the whole class) or "Wow, that's some weather we're having" (thanks for the insight, Tom Skilling). If she did say things like those just quoted, I'd be thinking comments like those just parenthesized and then I wouldn't be able to relax and "open up" and become one with my body.
Not that that's why I'm so into the yoga. In fact, I don't get why people do yoga to relax and improve their mental health. If we were more honest with ourselves, we would be able to admit that we like yoga because it rips our muscles apart so that we can do cool party tricks, like the tortoise poise, and get sexier muscle definition. I also like the limited motion required; it's a nice break from my circuit training classes. If I wanted a good up-down-up-down-up-again workout, I'd just go to a Catholic wedding. No, I do not buy the mental health premise. Obviously the people who practice yoga for relaxation have never spent an hour stretching next to Tweedle Dum.
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3 comments:
this was hillarious! love it!
Lovely lovely blog - do expect to see me around here often :)
Found you blog on the sidebar of Blogaholic Social Network. Decided to visit. I am your newest GFC follower. Stop by sometimes.
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http://itsabouttimemamaw.blogspot.com/
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