Thank goodness a yoga studio opened on my corner; otherwise, I'd have no idea how I'd crawl out of bed each morning.
I put on my Tweedle-dee outfit, tucking my t-shirt into my shorts as deeply as possible to avoid exposing myself during the most awkward positions, and donning my darkest shades to avoid the glaring designer lights, floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reveal way more than I'd ever want to see, and the roomful of skin-tight mommies doing cats and cows, so I can focus instead on my inner work. BTW, I wear that outfit for the rest of day too due to COVID of course and despite what my Zoom filter says to the contrary.
My anxiety starts as soon as I leave the house, because the teachers never turn on the air. Skinny yogis who can bend in half must either get cold from the slightest breeze or take pride in stale air; meanwhile, my glasses are fogging up immediately and slipping off my nose onto my sweaty mat. I mean, seriously, a dozen exercisers exhaling who knows what germs and diseases without any air circulation, not to mention all of them spreading legs trying not to fart?!
So, I always ignore the thermostat’s “DO NOT TOUCH” sign and turn on the fan.
Before they start, the teachers usually ask if anyone has any injuries, but by the time I finish listing my swollen foot (of unknown origins), sore shoulder (from an ancient dislocation), crick in my neck (maybe from same), neuropathy in my hands (left over from carpal tunnel), achy knees, tooth that needs pulling, and all the rest, the class would be over, so I just keep my mouth shut, hoping nobody hears my stomach gurgling from the decaf I just finished.
The best part is boning up on my Sanskrit before I’ve even had my second cup, with poses that sound like the “automobile repair shop” (aka, doing the dog) and “utter ass of yourself” (aka, bending over). And before I can even begin to get into the flow, the finicky micromanaging teachers start telling me how to breathe, “inhale” when I’m already exhaling, and vice versa till my head starts to spin.
Don’t even get me started on balancing. I have no idea what year I lost that ability, so I just make sure I’m next to one of the walls without a “DO NOT TOUCH” sign on the mirrors. They say focusing on a “Drishti” (Sanskrit for spot on the wall) helps, but I can’t see anything through my foggy sunglasses, so forget about it.
Most people think yoga is just stretching, but after a bunch of funky push-ups where they ask for your vin-number after the automobile repair shop, not to mention the side planks and poses where you’re literally expected to balance your knees on the back of your elbows, I’m ready for the door. And don’t be fooled if they offer you a chair pose: that involves squeezing your knees together and squatting in a way that makes very clear they’ve never experienced a beer belly.
Finally, we do the “shave yourself” asana (also known as rotting corpse pose as you lie motionless and exhausted on your back), which they say is the hardest, because who wants to hear an old man snore?
When all that’s said and done, I roll up my mat and make sure to thank the teacher as sweetly as I can, so there are no hard feelings. Then, I leave ready to start a blissful day. Namaste!
— September 2022