The rolodex of random thoughts

Despite the familiarity of walking into the cool and dark studio classroom, the nervous anticipation began to build up in the pit of my stomach.  Unraveling my yoga mat with a snaPPPPPPPPP that broke the calm serenity of the empty classroom, the mirrors on three sides of the room revealed the nervous reflection of a yoga student who has not attended a Hatha yoga class in about a month. 

As a result of class schedule shifting, I have not been able to attend a Hatha class for a few weeks.  The Thursday night slot has been available for ages.  But alas, the SCA tends to eat up my Thursday nights on a regular basis (damnit!).  Thus, the intensity of my workouts has decreased while the tightness in my work slacks has increased (damnit!)  Earlier in the week, I noticed that a Wednesday night yoga class had opened up – Hurrah!  Now the question remained – do I still have the ability to be pretzel boy to the same degree that I was just a few months ago?  Time would tell.

As the classroom began to fill, I sat on my mat in half-lotus trying to calm the anxiety that churned in my gut.  Fear of the unknown has the power to summon a full-blown panic attack in my utterly neurotic body.  In my head, I repeated my calming mantra – “Ohmmmmmmmmm.  Ohmmmmmmmmm.  Chill-the-f$*%-oooooooooout!!!!!!!!!!!  Ohmmmmmmmmm.”  Just then, an unnaturally thin and pixie-like, janet-planet, tree-hugging, granola-girl-looking chickie walked into the room.  Clearly, she had to be our instructor. 

Pixanne (not really her name, but it should have been), made a bee-line for the sound system and began playing a nice CD of new-age music before beginning the class.  Despite the fact that she used a headset (a cardinal sin in my book when it comes to yoga classes), she managed the volume and the pacing of the class very well, guiding us slowly through the class to build up heat prior to moving to more intense moves. 

For the most part, I do not notice much difference between male and female instructors.  However, there really is a lot of truth to the stereotypical yoga instructor.  Most of my instructors *may* have a little bit of belly-pudge, but most are unusually thin and somewhat ethereal.  Most tend to be dead-pan calm and serious in their pooh-bearish zen-like mannerism.  Most don’t judge, but they have the look.  You know the look.  Yet, there is one key-critical difference between the male and the female instructors.  Male instructors do not encourage the class to do things that damage our most important parts.  Female instructors… not so much.

As the class held in Tabletop, where you start on your back with knees bent and your hands by your side and then lift your midsection up, balancing on your feet and hands, Pixanne encouraged the class to shift from having our legs spread to locking our knees together for added intensity.  While I appreciate the fact that the added intensity would burn more calories, I chose not to do said adjustment.  Why?  Because I have balls!  Ladies, you have nothing to go CRUNCH!  Men, I’m sure you understand.  Once in tabletop, there is just no fathomable way for a guy to slowly close his knees without adjusting.  How am I supposed to adjust?  If I move my hands, I will go crashing to the floor.  Sorry Pixanne… I’m not blowing you off.  I just value my parts far too much.

Later in the class, we found ourselves standing and slowly lowering into chair pose.  Balancing carefully with my arms up in the air, knees bend (and spread apart slightly), and on my toes, I listened as Pixanne once again encouraged the class to increase the intensity by closing our legs and locking our knees.  Once again, I watched as the women following instructions, and the men carefully avoided doing it.  Well… most of the men.  Every now and again I noticed a new face that would begin doing as she said, only to stop, wince, and return to his original position.  “If you can, try building up that intensity,” Pixanne would say.  “Oh yah…” I thought to myself.  “That’ll build up intensity all right!  Intense PAIN!”  Again, later in the class, I heard that all-too-familiar bit of encouragement, “for added intensity, lock those knees together!”  In my mind, my standard response began to build, “Bite me, man-hater!” 

At the end of the class, I found myself with the rest of the class in a sweaty pool on the floor, enjoying the relief that comes with Corpse Pose.  My stomach subsided from its earlier churning, relieved that I had completed the class.  All in all, a pretty good class… if you overlook the genital torture.  Hurumpft!

Waking up yesterday morning after an action packed weekend, I felt not just mentally exhausted, but physically drained.  To add insult to injury, I somehow managed to tweak my back at some point.  While my walk to work helped out a little bit, I felt just… not right.  By mid-afternoon, my stomach felt almost nauseated.  And everything seemed too warm… too twitchy… too uncomfortable.

When I got to the gym, the cardio machines loomed imposingly, like a 20 foot wall daring me to climb them.  Stepping onto the cross-country ski machine, it took everything I could to develop a good pace.  Normally, I can do cardio in my sleep.  Just give me some good tunes (or an episode or two of America’s Next Top Model), and I’m off into my own little world.  Not so much yesterday.  After a half hour, I felt like roadkill.  But the routine was far from over – I still had an hour of yoga to go.

Walking into the studio, I threw my mat down on the floor, landed on my butt, and found myself just out of breathe.  Add on that my back was just SCREAMING!  Realizing that something was pinched, I figured that yoga wouldn’t make it worse, and just *might* help out.  Time would tell.

As the routine began, I could tell that I would be anything but in top form.  Every stretch seemed like where I started years ago.  Yet as the sweat built up, and the poses intensified, I could at least zen out with the thought of hottub time coming closer… closer.  Then finally, it happened…

… after holding a series of intense poses, our instructor led us back into a full child’s pose.  Resting in what is the easiest of yoga poses, my midsection began to convulse.  I’m not kidding – CONVULSE!  “WTF?” I thought to myself.  As my abs clenched and loosened, it shook my entire body, as I felt a wave climb from my midsection upwards.  It was then that I realized that tears were flowing.  “Tears?!!!  WTF!”  Despite the fact that I felt fine and I had had an ok, if a little bit boring of a day, I was now in the midst of a full-fledged crying-fit.  My midsection convulsed while the tears flowed.  I tried my absolute best to keep from making audible crying sounds while my brain tried to figure out what in the world was going on. 

Shifting from child’s pose to Down Dog, the shaking in my midsection subsided.  It was then that I also noticed that the sharp pain in my back had completely dissipated.  Huh????  I don’t pretend to understand it, but I would venture to say that somehow, someway, I managed to block or pinch something that also triggers things like crying-hissy-fits.  As Truly Freaken’ WEIRD as the release felt, it was so nice to have a strong and pain-free back again. 

Later on, slipping into the hottub where the temperature was JUST right, and the jets hit JUST right, I looked back upon my little child’s pose hissy fit.  How often do we all manage to bottle up reactions and emotions?  How much do the troubles of the day manage to manifest themselves in a sore shoulder, or a swollen joint?  And what can we all do to give ourselves that much-needed release?  For me, this was a very weird experience, but one that I feel the need to understand a bit more.

For some cosmic reason, yoga classes have been very hit or miss lately.  Since my gym is remodeling (or remuddling), lots of classes have been rescheduled, teachers switched around, etc.  The other week, for instance, I found myself in a class with an instructor that I had never had before.  While she did seem to know what she was doing, I think she must have been most recently involved in step aerobics.  Why?  Because our yoga poses - normally following a flow and grace of rhythmic movement akin to water trickling over a smooth stone, turned instead into some sort of race for enlightenment more in kind with kayaking.  In terms of successful exercise, it was sort of like taking a 33 and putting it on 78 speed.  (For those of you who have no idea what that means, grab an encyclopedia, look up "Vinyl album" and then go and watch Japaname' until dinner time).

This evening, I went in to my usual Wednesday night class expecting to see my regular instructor - Lana.  Instead, a little Asian woman walked into the room after dimming the lights to get us in the mood.  "Hmmmm..." I thought to myself.  "An Asian woman should be interesting.  Perhaps she'll throw a true Eastern spin on our class."  Not so much.  Donning a very loud headset, she unintentionally shouted in a very strong accent, "HOWR IS EVEEONE FEE'ING TONIGHT????!!!!!!... NIGHT...night... night... ight..."  

UGH!  This is yoga - not a rock concert.

"Um... fine," I said, after uncovering my ears.  Why she felt the need to wear a headset with the five of us that were there mystified me.  Then, I figured out why.  As she turned the music on, the very loud rhythmic drumming of African congas filled the room.  Ready to duck and cover for fear of poisoned darts in a Busch Gardens amusement ride, I said to myself, "Ya gotta be kidding me.  This is supposed to be relaxing?"  

Congas?!  What the fruit?

The instructor began the class in fairly typical fashion by leading us through a Sun Salutation.  For those of you unfamiliar, a Sun Salutation is a series of moves designed to heat and prep the body for the work to come.  Often combining standing moves, bending moves, and floor moves, a Sun Salutation can take several forms, designed to the will of the participant.  In a class setting, the instructor typically develops a routine and leads the class through it.  That is what this instructor did... sorta.

After introducing us to one "interesting" combination of moves for our Sun Salutation, the instructor abandoned us utterly, inviting us to go about the salutation at our own flow.  "Um...." I thought to myself.  "That would be fine... if we had actually memorized it."  Most often, the instructor still guides the class through the steps.  Not this time.  Each student went about the routine... kinda... at our own pace... or memory... or... solo effort.  Now, in an ideal perfect world where we all could block out distraction, this would not be an issue.  But when everyone in the room was clearly executing something entirely different, our "relaxing" class had about as much tranquili success as Linsay Lohan's rehab therapist.

Throughout the course of the class, I kept contorting my head to see what my instructor was doing.  Despite her using a headset (SET!  Set!  set...set....et), her accent was so strong that I could not figure out what in the world she wanted us to do.  Imagine, if you will, Margaret Cho's mother teaching yoga.  NOT a pretty picture.  Finally, we neared the end.  (Thank the gods!)  As a finishing pose, we sat holding our outstretched splayed legs in the air.  After listening to some short discussion where the only thing I could make out was "shockwa", she directed us to draw in and hold our first chakra.  "Wadies," she said.  "Dat be yo pee-muscle."  

"PEE MUSCLE?"  I thought to myself.  "She did NOT just say 'pee muscle'"

"And guys," she said.  "Da same tang fo ur".

As we sat on our rumps, holding our toes with our legs splayed out in the air, balancing, I began to giggle.  She was having us kegel!  In the back of my mind, all I could think was, "And CLENCH!  And HOLD!  And Release!"  Trying to do that while suppressing a giggle hurts - (Although makes the exercise MUCH more intense).

"Now tin of sometin red," she said.  "Verrrry verrrrry stronguh red.  And puw in da pee muscle."

This was just wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Do not be alarmed.  I don’t think that this is necessarily a sign of the apocalypse.  Then again, what the heck do I know?

At about 5:55 this morning, I woke up, climbed out of bed, hopped into a pair of shorts, and made a beeline for the back yard.  As the sun began to climb into the morning sky, I started up the boom box softly to a new age CD of mine as I began my yoga.  Non-morning person that I am, this is quite the unusual and crazy feat.  As I stretched, I could not help but embrace the morning light as it slowly brightened, sending the shadows into a lethargic retreat.  In yoga, we are taught to tune out outside distraction – thoughts of judgment of oneself or others, worries about work or domestic life, and all other daily-life concerns.  While I have certainly not mastered this ability, I enjoy the mental “ctrl-alt-delete” that leaves my mind open to the sites and senses around me.  With each pose, I noticed something else about our backyard Eden.  The peaches are beginning to ripen… the tomatoes are bearing fruit… the moss roses are opening in a veritable explosion of color and crepe-paper complexity, the jasmine producing perfume in full force., etc...  Before I knew it, I had completed over a half hour of stretching, and found myself utterly soaked in sweat.  Mission accomplished!

Pouring myself some coffee and kissing my honey good morning, I made my way upstairs for a shower and the ritual garbing up into suit n’ tie (yuck!).  Yet, the morning bonding did not end there.  After breakfast and a peaceful stroll through the garden, I opted to walk into the office today.  For whatever reason, our street was pleasantly quiet this morning except for the noisy chirping of the wild parrots flying about.  Whether they are native or the descendents of grandma’s escapee tweeties, those suckers are big, green, and loud!  Yet, they crack me up.  On my walk, I could not help but smile at the site of so many roses.  Roses in my garden… roses in other people’s gardens… roses in the strip garden of the Burger King.  Our climate is a veritable invitation to all-things-blooming. 

By the time I approached the main street, the hustle-and-bustle of waking business day life had begun in full force.  Contrasting from my backyard quiet bliss, I found myself comforted by the waking vibrancy.  Rather than being jarred awake into the full force of the morning, I had the chance to ease into it at my own pace and in my own way.

I think today is gonna be a good day.

Morning serenity

Do not be alarmed.  I don’t think that this is necessarily a sign of the apocalypse.  Then again, what the heck do I know?

At about 5:55 this morning, I woke up, climbed out of bed, hopped into a pair of shorts, and made a beeline for the back yard.  As the sun began to climb into the morning sky, I started up the boom box softly to a new age CD of mine as I began my yoga.  Non-morning person that I am, this is quite the unusual and crazy feat.  As I stretched, I could not help but embrace the morning light as it slowly brightened, sending the shadows into a lethargic retreat.  In yoga, we are taught to tune out outside distraction – thoughts of judgment of oneself or others, worries about work or domestic life, and all other daily-life concerns.  While I have certainly not mastered this ability, I enjoy the mental “ctrl-alt-delete” that leaves my mind open to the sites and senses around me.  With each pose, I noticed something else about our backyard Eden.  The peaches are beginning to ripen… the tomatoes are bearing fruit… the moss roses are opening in a veritable explosion of color and crepe-paper complexity, the jasmine producing perfume in full force., etc...  Before I knew it, I had completed over a half hour of stretching, and found myself utterly soaked in sweat.  Mission accomplished!

Pouring myself some coffee and kissing my honey good morning, I made my way upstairs for a shower and the ritual garbing up into suit n’ tie (yuck!).  Yet, the morning bonding did not end there.  After breakfast and a peaceful stroll through the garden, I opted to walk into the office today.  For whatever reason, our street was pleasantly quiet this morning except for the noisy chirping of the wild parrots flying about.  Whether they are native or the descendents of grandma’s escapee tweeties, those suckers are big, green, and loud!  Yet, they crack me up.  On my walk, I could not help but smile at the site of so many roses.  Roses in my garden… roses in other people’s gardens… roses in the strip garden of the Burger King.  Our climate is a veritable invitation to all-things-blooming. 

By the time I approached the main street, the hustle-and-bustle of waking business day life had begun in full force.  Contrasting from my backyard quiet bliss, I found myself comforted by the waking vibrancy.  Rather than being jarred awake into the full force of the morning, I had the chance to ease into it at my own pace and in my own way.

I think today is gonna be a good day.