I am not historically a yoga person.
However, I’m striving these days to be less piss and vinegar and more sweetness and light so when my friend Jennifer (who is, incidentally, a veritable bundle of sweetness and light) invited me to her yoga class yesterday, I decided to take her up on it.
The studio is a cozy little building on the near east side, with yellow walls and shiny wood floors. My vinyasa class takes place after a bikram session in which the room is warmed to a balmy 105 degrees. The studio’s website warns that “classes are held in a warm environment so you will find yourself drenched in the nectar of well being.” That’s right– you’re not sweating, you’re drenched in the nectar of well-being.
Needless to say, I was skeptical.
A snowy bus ride and ten crumpled dollar bills later, I was perched awkwardly on the edge of my bright orange yoga mat, surrounded by pony-tailed women padding gracefully across the floor in their slim, manicured feet. Thankfully, I was soon joined by Jennifer and her friend Clare and I was saved from feigning further interest in the crown molding.
The class began with the instructor singing a song about Krishna. It started soothing but after about fifteen minutes, ‘soothing’ shapeshifted into ‘yawn-inducing’. I feel weird singing spiritual songs when I don’t know what I’m saying or who exactly I’m praying to so I occupied myself by feeling self-conscious about my posture and trying not to look bored.
Mercifully, the song finally ended but I soon found myself longing for an era of simply sitting around and listening to someone sing. The class was hard. The most physically taxing activity my body is used to engaging in is reaching for another handful of Doritos and about half an hour in, my Tom’s of Maine deodorant gave up the fight against the nectar of my well-being.
I think I’ll go back next week.
Friday night I went to a dance party and Saturday I co-hosted a waffle breakfast with Graham and Erin. The rest of my time has been spent in relative hermitdom: cooking, reading, House marathons in my pajamas.
I moved into my new sublet this weekend. It has a lime green bathroom and glorious bay windows and checking my email involves standing on my head in the broom closet.
I wrote a song last night in my dreams and I tried to sing it to myself when I awoke but as sleep slipped away, my dream language slipped with it until the words became a jumble of nonsense. In retrospect, I think the song was about the immorality of adopting babies on the black market so it probably wasn’t going to be a smash hit anyway.
Speaking of smash hits, my friend Leigh tells me that she recently added one of my silly songs to a round of mix CDs she sent out. How cool is that?
Today I’m sitting in my favorite neighborhood coffee shop with a cup of coffee and Regina Spektor and 18 job ads open in my browser.
I don’t think I’m romanticizing when I say there was a simpler time, but if faced with the chance to take back the past seven months, I wouldn’t do it. What I have right now isn’t easy or good, but I think it might be something better than that.
Categories: my life in words