Well that was different. In my first post I mentioned that there were two studios that I belonged to: one was easier and smelled nice and the other was much harder but the instruction was superior. I chose the hard one.
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| Born Yogis is a book about how babies are natural yogis |
My first session was an intense 90-minute all-levels class. At the studio, sessions are either basics, all levels, or intermediate. Most all levels classes are 75 minutes in a 90+ degree room with 20 and 40 other people who look like they were born doing one-legged dogs and yoga handstands (
see photo.. apparently people really are born doing yoga). Today, thankfully, the class was a handful of misfits (like me) that were exhausted, uncoordinated, mildly hungover, and painfully committed to making it through their first class of 2012- even if they mostly laid in child's pose and were 3-moves behind in sun salutations. And we were.
One of the things I like most about this studio is that, in addition to fantastic instruction, they have assistants that come around the room and gently guide you into the position you're actually supposed to be in through a series of gentle hand movements on your respective parts. At first, this is awkward.. especially if you're like me and grew up in a WASP-y family that never hugged. After several years of practice, my husband (Chris), his family, and a series of friends (like Katie) have finally desensitized me to physical contact with others. And that, coupled with several years of occasional assisted yoga, I have not only become comfortable with this concept, I welcome it. Except, of course, when I'm in the condition I was in today.
You may recall that January starts with a national holiday where most people drink too much to compensate for the disappointment that nearly always comes from an unrealistic perception of how New Year's Eve should be celebrated. When the night turns out to not meet those expectations, we compensate by eating, drinking, and dancing too much. Knowing that I was planning to start the next day with an intense yoga session, however, I tempered my expectations (and drinking) to a more reasonable level. The champagne toast at midnight was my last drink, and I remained sober enough to drive my friend group 1.4 miles from the bar to our apartment.
But hot yoga isn't just a workout - it's a sweat out. And midway through class I smelled so profusely of boos and fried food that I couldn't stand myself (
article on what your sweat taste says about your diet). This was somewhat acceptable because there were so few of us in class that there was plenty of buffer space between mats and my fellow yogis at least wouldn't get more than a whiff of my stench. But, of course, we had an assisted class with that sweet older lady that had kind eyes and an encouraging smile. Every time the she came to assist my movements I was apprehensive - partially because I was starting to feel sick from dehydration and lack of sleep and partly because I was the smelly kid in class and I was confident she thought so too.
The class went on. I was able to keep up fairly well and paced myself far better than I normally do. Turns out it's actually a lot easier to pace yourself when you know you'll be back tomorrow. Though it was mostly fear of injury that won over getting the absolute most out of every class.
A real yogi would say that there is no 'most' or 'best' and that you should listen to how your body responds to where it is at that moment. A real yogi would also not view 30 as the end of days. But I'm not a real yogi.. just a misfit working towards some goals I haven't really been able to articulate yet. Maybe I'm more like a misfit in search of goals.
