I have a love/hate relationship with my yoga. First a bit of history, then a story or two.
I have referred to yoga often in the first couple of months on this blog. The route that brought me to it is cluttered with greedy, self-serving doctors, prescription meds and boring ass physical therapy.
Last year, while wrestling for control of my own medical decisions regarding multiple issues in my cervical spine, I kept hearing well-meaning converts preach about yoga. I had closed my mind to three-level fusion surgery that the neurosurgeon said was "urgent." I was stagnating in PT, gaining strength but still medicating permanently knotted muscles with anti-inflammatories, narcotics and muscle relaxers. I decided yoga would be my next proactive step.
I had never done any yoga when I chose my class from the local community college bulletin. There were four or five styles to choose from, I read the minimal description for each one and blindly chose Bikram's Beginning Yoga. The postures themselves are a form of hatha yoga, widely practiced in the US. The difference with Bikram's style is the heat of the room-105 degrees-and the length of the class-ninety minutes.
I now know that "beginning" is a bit deceptive. Newbies are given the goal of "just remaining in the room" for the full ninety minutes of their first class. Unless you become a teacher, which is an intensive and sequestered nine week course, there are no advanced classes. Everyone always does the beginning class. Each class is the same series of twenty-six poses, done twice. You work only as far as your own body will go. The person next to you may have been practicing for ten minutes or ten years.
I don't remember much about my first class except that I hated it. At the end I collapsed on my puddle of a towel and tried to figure out how I was going to drag my ass off the floor. I hadn't sat out any poses. I survived, but barely.
I found myself back at the studio again the next night. Why? Now I knew what I was in for and I was terrified. At the same time, the sense of accomplishment that had buoyed me all day told me to get my scared, sore body back in there for another go-around. So I did.
That was last June. I had a bunch of fits and starts during my busy summer, and finally settled down into a regular three or four day a week practice last fall. I no longer take any medications. Not only that, my forty-year-old body, always small, always in shape, is healthier than it's ever been, inside and out.
What's not to like?
Well, some days are miserable in class, just like some days in life. If you don't master the delicate balance and timing of food and hydration you can be in for a tough(er) haul. Also, the teacher's personalities vary widely. I enjoy most of them for how each one brings out something different in my practice. There has never been an instructor that has motivated me to turn around, walk away and come back another day.
There is now.
Tuesday night I drew the short straw. I'd had the evening's teacher once before, but it was last summer. I remember him being confident, making personal corrections here and there, and having a good grasp on the heating system. Two nights ago he was much more than that. He was rock-star arrogant, the room was more oveny than usual-not enough humidity-and he was obviously frustrated with several of the students he knew well.
There I was, quietly sweating my way through class, happy that it wasn't too cold, and keeping to myself on one side of the room. I was at a sister-studio, not my usual one, so I was a bit out of my comfort zone but holding my own. We were getting close to the end of the standing series (the first hour of class) and out of the blue, Jeff looks over in my direction and says "You've done quite a number on MY MIRROR." Sure enough, I look to my right and the side mirror has a handful of sweat trails running from my head to the floor, displayed for all to see. It's nothing out of the ordinary, by the last class of the day most of the mirrors are coated in the exertions of the day. Not this mirror, it was spotless except for my location. He must have cleaned BEFORE class. What sense does that make?
I acknowledged his comment with some kind of shrug or nod, we're not really encouraged to talk in class, and continued on. About 20 minutes later, near the end of class and in the middle of dialog (a continuous set of timed verbal instructions that the teacher leads the class with...) he walks over to a utility closet, grabs a RAG and some WINDEX and, while still talking us through our pose, walks over to the mirror by me and CLEANS it!
Not only did the smell of the cleaner set me off my game (odors are tough to handle in that environment) but I suddenly grasped just how amazingly disrespectful he was being. The urge to kill the asshole didn't surface until after class ended. Fuck, thanks for the humiliation.
If he's at the front desk next time I walk into a studio, I have several things I imagine saying to him, but I won't. I'll walk away and save my energy for another class. I WILL gossip to my yoga friends about my experience, hoping for some outraged feedback, but that's all. I have no desire to hang on to those emotions and I highly doubt he'd give a shit what I think. Cest la vie...
The other yoga issue on my mind is an incident that happened two days before Mr. Asshole did his neat-freak number on me. It was last Sunday afternoon at my regular studio. The place was packed with beginners, a new community college session must have been starting. As long as I can get a good spot in the front I usually enjoy the classes full of new yogis. The instructor uses more descriptive dialog, the energy of the huge class is a positive, and I feel pretty good about how far I've come if I get pointed out as a good example.
So we start the class off full and expectant. I'm inspired because my FAVORITE instructor, who is leaving us for Vegas, then Australia (nice life those guest teaches have...) is practicing with us. The first few poses go well, no one has succumbed to heat or exhaustion yet, too early.
Along comes Eagle pose. (See the top of my post for a visual, I can't figure out the whole "add image" thing yet.) In Eagle, you are balancing all your weight on one bent leg, the other leg crosses over that knee and behind the leg with your toes hooked around the calf, and your elbows, forearms and wrists are wrapped up in each other. We are ending the second set of this pose when I HEAR a pop/crack followed by screaming, then another set of crack-crack. Oh god, the woman one row behind and two mats over has hit the ground in an odd collapsed arch, one knee bent in the air and is yelling "help me, help me!" Shit. The instructor for the evening immediately moves into action, she knows this is BAD.
While she soothes Miss Screamer and internally freaks, the other teacher runs for the phone. The paramedics are at the studio within about three minutes. The other forty odd people or so are in varying states of "help" or inertia. I decided not to help, there were plenty of chefs in the kitchen. It gave me plenty of time to listen. I learned that the yoga victim was twenty-nine years! old, had recently given birth and lived at least ten miles away. Crap, that's a lot of effort and planning to get to somewhere to injure yourself in front of an audience. I also learned from the paramedics that she had dislocated her knee and broken her ankle. Ewwww. The screeching and moaning continued as they tried to mobilize her leg for transport. I escaped into the bathroom at that point.
The whole incident only took about fifteen minutes. Once the ambulance left, class continued. To say the least, it wasn't my best class. We all soldiered on, but I'm willing to bet that no one got any kind of inner peace from class that day.
Those are my bitches for the month about my yoga. I'm on my fifth day in a row, two of them involving the incidents described above, so the love must still be outweighing the hate. Back I go tomorrow, a birthday present for myself. Here's hoping I'm the worst one in the class and the rock star is teaching somewhere else...
So the wedding we attended last weekend went off without a hitch.
