Yoga on Sunday morning is like eating a Hot Pocket after midnight on any day of the week - both are terrible decisions that will leave you nauseous, light-headed, unnaturally tired, and hating yourself. Sunday morning yoga was the predicament I was faced with last weekend to complete #7.
I had originally planned to do the $5 Community Yoga session at Blissful Monkey on Saturday afternoon, but unexpected last-minute events that transpired on Friday evening prevented me from making it. I blame this on my friend and neighbor Emily, who provided me with a near-lethal combination of Heady Topper, Applejack and electronic Catchphrase. This three-headed monster kept me in bed until about noon the following day, when finally I was able to drag myself to the shower. Attending yoga was not going to be an option this day - my throbbing head made sure of it. When explaining these foiled plans to my roommate Whitney, she suggested that I go with her to a yoga class at her gym the following morning. Apparently I could get a three-day trial membership to sample the facility, which included all fitness classes. The obvious downside was that it was Sunday morning, but I had to do it - otherwise I'd be falling even farther behind in completing my goal. Plus, it was free YMCA yoga - if it's good enough for the Village People, to go 'get cleaned up and to have a good meal', it's good enough for me.
Speaking of the Village People - other than the chorus, does anyone actually know any of the lyrics to YMCA? I just Googled the song, and found a surprising nugget of wisdom, which anyone can apply to yoga practice - or life, really:
No man does it all by himself.
I said, young man, put your pride on the shelf,
And just go there, to the Y.M.C.A.
I'm sure they can help you today.
I had lingering doubts that Whitney and I would even make it to the 9:45am yoga class. I never set my alarm (we had never agreed upon a departure time), it was supposed to be a stupidly cold temperature in the morning, and it was SUNDAY MORNING. Deep down, I don't think either of us really wanted to go. Yet somehow, some way, Whitney got me up and ready, I pounded some Naked smoothie and fisted some crackers in my mouth (breakfast of champions) and we were both trudging out the door and off to the class in the bleak, cold morning. And cold it was. At one point I think I was actually breathing in icicles and pain. Thankfully our total exposure to the elements was only about 5 minutes, as the YMCA in Chinatown was right off the Tufts Orange Line T stop.
I've never been to a YMCA that didn't smell of some horrible combination of chlorine and old peoples' houses, and this was no exception. By gym standards, this one was pretty fair-to-middle, and it reminded me of my elementary school gymnasium. I didn't even need to get a the three day pass - I guess the 'loyal member' vibe I was giving off and my disarming smile was enough for them to let me through. More likely, they thought Whitney had one of those two person passes. Either way, free, no hassle entry - let the yoga begin!
After a delayed commute and time required to change in the locker room, Whitney and I rolled into the yoga class about 10 minutes late. It was packed. We tiptoed through the yogis to grab our supplies from the closet (mats, yoga blocks, blankets) and squeezed into the only available spaces in the back of the room. I was forced to set up next to a trash can - yup, this was the YMCA yoga I expected.
Immediately I noticed a much faster clip to this yoga - this instructor was much more aggressive than my previous ones. This is what I expected Vinyasa 'Flow' yoga to resemble. Except maybe a bit faster? The transitions between the poses went so quickly that I hardly had time to comprehend what the instructor had requested before we were flowing into the next one. Whitney had assured me that this was beginner yoga, but I call bullshit on that - I was sweating and my shoulders were sore from multiple Plank poses after only about 15 minutes of class. This was the Mississippi river of yoga, and I was drowning in the Flow. Thank god for Awkward Facing Hunchback and Conscientious Objector Warrior poses - once again, they bailed me out of a tough situation. The rest of the class also seemed to be very challenged by the pace, so I don't feel terrible about how much I was huffing and puffing. One gentleman - an obvious newbie - threw in the towel after about 30 minutes and awkwardly stood in the back with his arms crossed, watching over the class.
Towards the end of class, during a particularly difficult series of poses that left me panting with my head against the mat, a horrible thought crossed my mind. I was using a community mat at a YMCA. Panic quickly replaced exhaustion, and several terrible things crossed my mind: Do these mats get sprayed down? Can Hoof and Mouth disease or Hepatitis get transmitted mat to mat? Am I the worst yogi to practice on this particular mat? I couldn't wait to get home, burn all my clothes in a barrel fire, and take a scalding 5 hour shower. Don't. Touch. Anything. Else.
Cool down couldn't come fast enough - even this was made more difficult that usual, with a few extra exercises utilizing the yoga blocks thrown in. All in all, this session had felt more like an aerobics class - not what I wanted or was hoping for on a Sunday morning. All of this I pondered while listening to the sound of dribbling basketballs drown out the Enya-like yoga tunes, coming from the indoor court just outside the room.
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