I am a basement yogi.
Y’all have seen my DVD repertoire, but since I’ve got the vinyasa track of the 10 Pound Slimdown memorized, more often than not I find myself actioning my 5:00 AM practice to Morning Joe. I understand this is not the natural order of things.
About a month ago, when Laura, Danny, Marcus and I were out for dinner at Tilia, Laura mentioned that she takes classes at the yoga studio not five minutes away from our house. So we agreed to set a date and go together.
I slapped together an outfit (I think you’re meant to make an effort when you work out in front of strangers) and ransacked the house for a proper towel to bring with since most of our hand towels are cream colored. The last thing I wanted to do was wipe my face off on one of them. I ended up with this treasure.
The studio entry itself was pretty much what I expected. Lots of blonde wood and muted tones. A prayer request box. Cubbies.
As we entered the actual studio, one of the instructors squeezed Laura’s shoulder and enthused, “I saw the two of you embrace. That’s very exciting.”
There were about 10 of us in the class, total. One of our number was a total Kath Eats doppelganger. Besides the part where we did the splits, I really enjoyed it. It was a wonderful opportunity to see in-person whether or not what I’ve been up to for the last three years has been “correct form” or not.
Good news: I’m on the right path.
Yoga class two came five days later courtesy of girls’ weekend at Bluefin Bay.
After coloring ourselves varying shades of enthusiastic about breakfast, we put on all of our clothes because it was OMG ZERO DEGREES outside and trotted over to the wellness center where we were greeted by a fart-filled entryway (truly horrific) and a bin of community yoga mats.
And those blankets. Can we talk about those for a moment? Because apparently they are the unsung hero of the yoga prop stable.
Blessedly for all of us, the instructor had already hit the incense party train.
Nevermind the fact that Brady described the scent as Catholic Mass.
The actual session was uneventful, besides the part where we spent so much time in Pigeon Pose that I had to go into Child’s Pose and pretty much no one could walk afterward.
But. The crowning jewel was not the incense. Or the Pigeon Pose from hell. Rather it was the festive chanting of three rounds of “Om” at the end of the practice. What pitch to chant at? How long to go? How loudly or softly to send that sound into the universe? Mysterious stuff, indeed.