Classes #3 and #4 are complete. 40% of the way to the finish line.
Getting out of bed at 8:30am on a Sunday is like getting up at 5am on any other day. Awful. I had no idea the sun rose before 11am on Sundays. While I could have attended an afternoon yoga class, any session I chose would have overlapped the NFL playoff games, which would have been even more unthinkable. Plus, I thought I might get off the hook easy with the 'Sunday Morning Flow' class.
The only benefit of getting up so god-forsakenly early on a Sunday is the multitude of parking options in downtown Jamaica Plain. Apparently no else one thinks being up and about that early on a Sunday is a great idea either. While parking my car, I thought about how warm my bed must have still been, and how I hadn't allotted enough time before leaving my apartment to down my morning french press of coffee; the whole beans were mocking me from inside their bag in the fridge.
Blissful Monkey's 'Sunday Morning Flow' class is described on their website:
The only 'flow' in this description is the steady stream of bullshit making this class sound like it would be a walk in the park - this class was by far the hardest. The class was comprised of mostly middle-aged people who must have had nothing better to do on a Sunday morning, and a few younger people who probably confused the yoga studio for their bedroom during a sleepwalking episode. Our instructor, while proficient and smiley like the others, quickly announced that she was a hands-off instructor. Strangely, I had really come to appreciate someone physically manipulating my body into the correct posture; apparently listening to instructors and watching fellow classmates successfully do the poses wasn't enough - I needed physical intervention, and this became apparent within the first 5 minutes of class. From the start, we were blowing through poses faster than that no-talent ass-clown Shia LaBeouf blows through plagiarized apologies on Twitter. (Seriously what's up with that guy? Congratulations Shia, according to recent photos you're half a mustache and 37 shitty new age albums short of morphing into Yanni):
 |
| Seriously, am I the only one who sees the resemblance? |
Anyway, my point is that the yoga was 'flowing' quite fast, and without personalized instruction or correction. Whatever I was doing, I was doing it rapidly, and most likely with no actual resemblance to yoga.
To make matters worse, somewhere between the point of complete exhaustion and the end of the class, I made the observation that my toenails were in desperate need of a trimming. I'm really not sure how they got to the point of 'you've just awoken from a coma' length, but I suddenly became hypervigilant to the fact that perhaps everyone in the class had already noticed my claw-feet. No doubt this is exactly what people wandering in a desert without water experience, and it was all I could do to get to the final 'child's pose' and subsequent nap time.
Class #3 was complete, and with it a less favorable view of yoga. Can't say I'll ever do this level of yoga again. Sunday Flow can suck it.
* * *
For the fourth class, my goal had been to show up to the Restorative Yoga session on the next day, Monday. After Sunday's class, I needed it - if not to restore me physically, then to restore at least a little bit of my pride. All throughout the day on Monday, however, I continued to feel more and more run down, and decided to take a day off to recharge.
I barely made class #4 on Tuesday (Impossibly Gentle Yoga For Inanimate Objects & Corpses). I need to make all of my connections after work perfectly to be at the yoga studio with enough time to check-in, change, and set up my yoga station. I missed the train I needed to take by about 30 seconds, and so I caught the dolling one five minutes later and had to jog in a semi-downpour to the studio from the Green Street T stop - which is about 7-8 minutes away. I made it with about a minute to spare.
I'm glad I did. Bec (my favorite instructor so far) brought back my faith in my ability to at least act like I'm doing yoga. She has a very calm and affable presence, with a voice that should be broadcasting human interest segments on NPR. Since there were a lot of familiar faces from the first beginner's class a week ago, Bec made this session slightly more challenging to build off of the level of difficulty from the first one. As the class went along, Bec was also more comfortable instructing me, as she had no problem either (gently) calling me out from across the room if I was doing something that grossly violated the nature of yoga, or physically helping me to correct poses.
I learned quite a bit about myself, and about yoga, over these two starkly-different classes. First, everything about Sunday morning yoga is terrible. It should be banned - hopefully Marty Walsh has this on his agenda. Second, a more challenging yoga class doesn't necessarily mean a more challenging level of yoga for the individual yogi; if I can only successfully complete a handful of poses in a more challenging level of yoga, then how am I actually challenging myself? I realized that I actually gain more out of a slightly more advanced level of beginner yoga, because I can complete almost every pose and push myself as hard as my body will allow in each one.
I was feeling so good about myself on the way home from class #4 that, while boarding the 39 bus, I completely ignored the inner voice that was telling me not to sit so close to the grizzled, older gentleman with the Gilligan hat on and the dagger tattoos on his cheeks - I could sense him eyeing the yoga mat that was protruding from my backpack as I walked down the aisle past his seat. I had a feeling that he would engage me in conversation as soon as I sat down, and I was right:
Face-Tattooed Gentleman: Hey, you doing yoga!?
Me: Yeah. (trying to act disinterested in the conversation. Not working.)
FTG: I did yoga down in South Boston. You do it around here?
Me: Yeah, downtown JP.
FTG: You like it?
Me: Yeah, except I'm not really flexible.
FTG: You look flexible.
Me: Thanks (Not sure what else to say when a gentleman with dagger face tattoos issues this compliment).
FTG: How old are you? 32?
Me: 35
FTG: Yeah, I liked my yoga classes in South Boston. I did it when I was half your age. The instructor was nice (rolls eyes) and gorgeous. A lot of beautiful ladies in that class.
Me: Huh.
FTG: Alcohol is how I stretch out now (loud laugh at his own joke). 'Acute alcoholism' is what they put on the chart. I use it all to stretch out: alcohol, drugs, pills - I like to have a good time. That's where I'm going right now!
Me: Huh.
FTG: Do you drink? You don't, do you?
Me: Oh no, I don't (felt like this was the appropriate thing to say to a self-described 'acute alcoholic'. Also trying to avoid an invitation to the worst party imaginable. Happy that he inferred from yoga that I maintained a healthy lifestyle, so that I didn't have to come up with an excuse).
Bus mercifully arrives at the Forest Hills T stop.
TG: Well, it was nice chatting! Off to have fun!
Me: Have fun.
In addition to the great feeling I got upon completion of class #4, according to the Face-Tattooed Gentleman with acute alcoholism, I 'look flexible'. I call that progress.
No comments:
Post a Comment