When Yoga goes NO-ga.

[storytimewithjoe]

The term “yoga” refers to a unity between mind, body and spirit. A practitioner of yoga should face challenge in his or her practice, and be left with a feeling of calm, peace, bliss, and serenity upon completion. At least, that is the ideal. Yet, every now and again, extra challenges make themselves known. And yes, such was the case last night.

 

Typically, when I go to my Wednesday night yoga class, the room fills up with an assortment of mostly-regulars, and the occasional newbie. For the most part, when I walk into the room, there is very little noise aside from the sssss-NAP that accompanies the unfurling of a yoga mat. Occasionally, one yogi may set up a mat next to his or her friend, and the two will begin a polite and quiet conversation between themselves. But for the most part, a respectful quiet hush falls about the room prior to the entrance of the sweet-spirit granola-girl instructor with the soft and loving voice.

 

But not this week. Oh no…

 

Apparently, my gym has been playing host to the refugees from a gym in Costa Mesa that is being remodeled. For those of you unfamiliar with SoCal, you know that whole icky stereotype of The O.C. (Real Housewives, the Hills, etc., etc., etc.?) Well… as much as I would like to believe that it is all just make believe, there really are some people like that… and they seem to live around this gym in Costa Mesa. And all of the stereotypes live in full glory. Expensive wildly colored hair extensions, lip-plumping, tummy-tucked, boob-jobbin’ wombyn of undetectable ages showed up in abundance. I don’t think I realized JUST how shrill some women’s voices can be until I got into that studio last night. Rather than the typical peace and quiet that the room normally provides, the competing screeches of “OmiGOD!!!!” and “Nooooo WAAAAY!” made me feel just about as serene as a kitten dropped into the middle of 5^th and Broadway during rush hour.

 

Suddenly surrounded by what felt like a collection of Pussycat Doll wannabes with no boundary issues, I tried in vain to find my happy place when suddenly the jolt of power-pump music drew my attention to the fact that the instructor was (grooooooan) not my usual instructor. Rather, she was from That Other Gym. And worse… she was one of them!

 

With a voice that sounded like an unholy combination of Elle Woods, Fran Dresher, and nails on a chalkboard, the instructor began the instruction sans introduction, insisting that everyone begin in child’s pose. This was NOT going to be good. The class was too crowded. The music was too noisy. And the instructor’s solution to competing with the music was to SHOUT rather than just lower the volume of the music. And there was something about that shrill nasally tone that sent shards of glass through my skull. Oh, for the love of Zen of Pooh, could it GET any worse?

 

Why yes. It could.

 

As the instructor shouted out names of poses like a fem-bot commandant, it became very apparent that she had no intention of teaching a standard yoga class where one strikes a pose, and holds to build heat and tension. Oh no… she was all about “yogarobics”, my term for the unholy combination of traditional yoga and Richard Simmons. Now at this point, I have been doing yoga for over five years or so. I’m pretty familiar with most of the standard poses and their names. Yet, even I had trouble remembering which pose was what as she just threw out names at random. As for the rest of the class… let’s just say there was no rhythm. Normally, I wouldn’t care. But as packed as we were, with random mats all over the place, if the rhythm is off, the risk of getting kicked in the face is much higher if one is moving forward into an upward facing dog just as the person in back is trying to catch up with a downward dog with left leg thrust into the air. And Move, and Breathe, and…. DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!

 

Several times, I began laughing out loud in class, as she either switched the music to intense power-pump crap that should NEVER be played in a yoga studio, to having us effectively power-sprint while in down-dog. Seriously? Fer Reelz? The music was so bad, that I actually didn’t mind it when an occasional cell phone went off, causing a designer-leotard princess to dig out the pink and bedazzled phone from her Prada purse next to her hand-woven rainforest mat.

 

By the time we finished our final resting pose (which she also rushed us through), I think I sprinted out of the class. The class did get my heart pumping, but I don’t know if it was from the exercise, or just the pure anxiety and frustration that it caused.

 

Please, oh forefathers of yoga… send the Real Housewives back to their other gym soon! May they find happiness and bliss on Fashion Island. As for me, an order of quiet with a side of serenity please.

 

Namaste.

 

Comments

[aeddie.livejournal.com]

Sorry your calm got harshed.

Didn't you know that in the 1990's there was an aerobics to yoga amnesty program with government subsidized retraining? Unfortunately there is a brisk black-market for falsified retraining certifications and lots of out of work aerobics and cheerleading instructors are passing themselves off as certified yoga instructors.

[conjurman.livejournal.com]

Have you ever seen the "Chicago Style Yoga" sketch on The Big Gay Sketch Comedy Show? You describe something similar. When she end it by saying "Namaste, bitches" I lost it. Sounds like you weren't far off from that. Good luck with the next class.

[joeguppy.livejournal.com]

I was totally thinking of that as it was happening. GET YO ASS INTO CHILD'S POSE!!!!