As many of you know, because it's rare that I shut up about it, I have a very love-hate relationship with yoga.
While I love what it does for my mind and body, I hate the entire culture attached to it. I hate the godessey, appropriation of Eastern religions aspect of it. I hate the smug, sanctimonious attitude adopted by many of its practitioners. I hate how it's become a culture of the wealthy--evident by 90 dollar yoga pants and expensive retreats. I hate how studios here charge almost 20 dollars a class and then use the revenue in order to make their studios all slick and decorated. Heck, I hate it because that Eat, Pray, Love woman likes it. That actually, should be reason enough in and of itself. Indeed, many aspects of yoga send my inner curmodgeon off into a zen-like tirade.
What I also hate however, is how flabby and blue I have been feeling recently. So back to the studio I went this week, my head and heart filled with apprehension.
It is with mixed feelings that I tell you, dear readers, that having been to class twice already this week, I feel completely amazing. I am lean and strong, limber and downright cheerful. My ability to roll with the punches has increased remarkably and I've barely noticed a whole host of things that normally irritated the hell out of me. And while my spirits are high, I feel sort of ashamed. I mean, I hate this shit, and I object to it on several levels, but why does it make me feel so good?
Not that there weren't issues with the classes. To add to this complicated miasma of overthought, I happen to be a total snob when it comes to instruction. My last boyfriend introduced me to a studio that while it isn't trendy, is populated by some extremely wonderful instructors who totally focus on the nitty-gritty of alignment and proper posture in poses. So now I am completely spoiled and when I find myself in a class where the teacher doesn't seem to care that half the students (myself included) are totally not paying attention to form, it bugs me a little. Okay, a lot. It bugs me a lot. If you're going to do yoga, do it correctly. After all, isn't that what we're paying instructors to do? Ya know, instruct?
Anyway. So one studio I probably won't return to, at least not to the same instructor. Which is fine, they can totally do without me as well. The other, however was more promising.
Not far from my apartment, yesterday's yoga experience actually fostered a pretty cool evening routine. Check this out:
I arrived at home after work with just enough time to change and prepare a light dinner that could sit and be reheated after class. After getting my yoga on, I returned a while later to a home cooked meal all nicely prepared . See, there's nothing I hate more than having to cook after 8 pm on a weeknight. Perhaps it seems insignificant to you, but to me, the whole experience was a total revelation. It was the high-point of my week thus far.
Um, so where is this going, you ask? I'm not sure. Stay tuned for a post next week in which I inevitably change my mind about the whole endeavor. Because that's how I do.