Alas, one can only spend so much time with themselves before they begin to crave company. Supposedly, Grand Rapids has much to offer outside the confines of my four walled apartment but I have not ventured far to see it. Thus, when a coworker asked me if I would be interested in trying yoga, I eagerly agreed. Now, as with most things, I envisioned ultimate perfection with little to no practice when embarking on this journey to inner peace. I pictured myself waving freely, toes wiggling to the melodic sounds of Enya. I thought about how easy it would be to embrace relaxation when I had so few worries in my quiet care-free life. Additionally, this was the description I read ahead of time "Power yoga isn’t about bending you into a pretzel or forcing you to chant. It’s about challenging you to reach your fullest potential. Basically, you're a rock star. We'll help you realize it." And who wouldn't kick farm duties and cast iron skillets aside to be a rock star?
But, as with most things, my vision was wrong. Yoga is not for pussies. I arrived at my first class fifteen minutes early full of wonder and excitement. I was shortly thereafter stripped of those feelings only to be tucked into a square no larger than my body in a room that was a stagnant ninety-five degrees. That is when the terror began. A tiny woman, with the voice of an angel cooed out a brief overview of the next hour and a half. It sounded manageable though admittedly I was clinging to the promise of ten relaxing minutes to close our session. She gently asked if there were any beginners, assuring us that we would be fine, and to take "child's pose" as often as necessary. Outwardly I nodded my head in agreement but inside my pride had taken over.
I think the main problem is the infrequency with which I approach exercise. I do not build stamina over the course of several month long sessions but rather binge on it once or twice every 6-8 months. This was an example of this. I was entirely out of shape, and ready to "kick ass," which you probably know is impossible when you have the endurance of a bean bag chair. So, after about twenty minutes of up and down dogging, while holding a high to low plank in between, my limbs were shaking so forcibly I feared they would rocket off and hit my neighbor. Honestly, if you want to see your physical limitations on display, yoga is the sport for you.
Sweat had begun to pool in every crevice, making it difficult to hold the cork block with my wet meaty palm, while simultaneously "maintaining balance and stability of the leg" as the other aims for parallelism of an unnatural degree. This idiotic pose is called "half moon" and there's nothing romantic about it. Meanwhile, the instructor, who I was cursing silently between moans, kept purring these condescending phrases like "focus on your breath" and "let all your toxins go." It was at this point that a vessel in my right eyeball popped and I had to leave the room to expel violent diarrhea in the patchouli scented bathroom down the hall, effectively ending my session. I think, out of everyone, I purged the most toxins that day.
Surprisingly enough, this did not conclude my exploration of body and mind unity, in fact it strengthened it. After the kindly receptionist pumped coconut water into my failing system and I regained the ability to breathe voluntarily, I decided I felt pretty good. Great even. And that I loved yoga. And these people. And this sweat box. And Grand Rapids. And my job. And my life. And what I'm saying is that basically I was high as a fuckin' kite off this near death experience but in my state of delirium I did sign up for a month of unlimited classes. And that is where my story will begin.
Until next time friends.
All of my images were stolen from google.
