I don't know what I was thinking. Somewhere between six years ago and September 2010, I forgot the intense physical and mental demands of yoga and decided I needed to restart my practice.
I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.
Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.
Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.
Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.
And that was a GENTLE yoga class.
By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.
Yep, I'd get them all.
When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.
You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.
When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.
The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.
And no McDonald's next time.
t.
