Namaste

Nike Yoga Challenge. Cool, right?

My poor friend Austin. Working across the street from me, and avoiding a dreadful commute from Orange County, he’s taken over my guest bedroom on Mondays and Tuesdays. Technically, as I’ve already filled the closet with dresses and winter coats and the bathroom cabinets with nail polishes and sparkly band-aids – he’s taken over the guest bed, as that’s just about the only thing I haven’t claimed. I say poor Austin because I subject him to an hour and a half of terrible B-list celebrities dancing on Monday, and an even worse, and entirely predictable results show in which one of said B-list celebrities is eliminated – only to go on to star in, or host some show of their own, I’m sure – the following night. Not only do I subject Austin to terrible television, but I drag him to crazy delicious vegan restaurants and, as was the case last night – yoga.

Before you start thinking I’m some hippie weirdo who doesn’t eat cheeseburgers, wears Teva sandals and practices yoga with feathers in my hair, allow me to stop you. That just sounds so granola. I love a good burger, medium rare, oozing with cheddar and I think people who don Teva sandals must be stopped. I did, however, just purchase these to die for hair feathers that I absolutely cannot wait to sport and I do love yoga.

 I must admit, my love affair with this ancient Indian spiritual practice began out of vanity. Jennifer Aniston practices yoga. So obviously I needed to too. Why else would anyone do anything unless Jennifer Aniston did it first? An immature little yogi, it was a miracle if I could make it through an entire class without erupting in laughter, while attempting to mask it by coughing, and ultimately laughing even harder. Some people just take yoga so seriously. They moan and grunt while twisting their bodies in the most awkward and compromising of positions, and call me childish, but I just couldn’t keep it together. It didn’t help that my favorite class was an 8:30am gentle yoga practice in which the next youngest yogi was 67 years old. Imagine your grandpa in spandex, grunting through a Surya Namaskara first thing in the morning. I don’t think so.

Graduating to more advanced classes, I’d say I’m getting much better – both in my yoga practice, and level of maturity, with the exception of the occasional giggle over someone’s “mat squeaking” in downward dog– no one believes you, by the way. Maturity aside, there are some things I just will not do. I will not om and I will not cover myself in those old blankets. Nobody needs to hear my attempt at harmonizing, and those blankets resemble something purchased in a flea market in Mexico, and displayed on the wall of my living room sophomore year of college. But aside from that, I’m game. And so was Austin, who honestly was a pro. And as I walked in to the studio in head to toe lululemon with a starbucks in hand, reminded me we’re too materialistic for anyone to think we’re hippies. Maybe the feathers will give me a more organic feel? I certainly hope so. 

Namaste.