This is not a sappy love story. In fact, it’s a drama triggered by the conflict between pranayama breathing and soul-crushing capitalism.
Here’s how:
A little over a year ago, inspired by one of my DC friends who practiced Bikram religiously every Saturday morning, I started frequenting my local yoga studio (which shall remain unnamed for now) and partaking in the hour and a half sweaty, slightly stinky adventure that is Bikram. It helped that the studio was less than two blocks away from my apartment and that they had a very advantageous package for beginners (once they get you hooked, you’re theirs forever).
What is Bikram, you may ask. Bikram is a series of 26 yoga poses, each of which is performed twice in a single 90 minute class, in a room heated to 95-100 degrees Celsius. Its benefits, for me, have ranged from relieving and even obliterating pain from a torn meniscus in my knee and back pain caused by sedentary desk work, to building muscles in places I had no idea it was even possible. One immediate side effect is an enormous rush of serotonin and a feeling of being stretched and squeezed out, like a wet towel on a drying rack. Belive me, it’s a pleasant feeling. Another result I attribute to my weekly bikramming is that I managed NOT to sprain my ankle falling down the stairs of my apartment building the other day – something I’ve experienced before, from far gentler falls.
In the 14 months since I became a hot yoga aficionado, I’ve been taught the same class by about 20 people, which makes for intriguing comparisons. A teacher’s personality really comes through in this class by whether they stick exactly to the script or derail from it in idiosyncratic ways.
Among others, my various teachers have said things like: “Yeah, we have to stick to the damn script, so please hold your leg two inches beneath the knee, massaging the transversal colon” and “I saw an eagle flying in park the other day. He was soo… majestic,” and, “Don’t pay any attention to the loud alarms and the cries for help. This is Polk street, after all…” and, of course, the holiday-themed: “If you see me on the street with a tall guy, don’t tell him that basting the turkey is the hardest part.”
All in all – I loved it. The feeling of community with fellow sufferers who fell out of their poses before time was due, the exhilaration of pushing beyond my limits, especially on poses I thought I had perfected … It was beautiful.
But, alas, this love story was doomed: Two weeks ago, I was horrified to see in my inbox, courtesy of the local Groupon list, a coupon for 90% (NINETY PERCENT!!!!) off on 30 yoga classes at my studio. First impulse, of course, was to click on the BUY button – how naïve. The coupons must’ve sold out in the first thirty seconds. I won’t deny it - I felt betrayed and robbed. Classes are not exactly cheap and a give-away like this to random strangers was just unfair.
The long term effects of the Groupon maneuver were devastating: increasingly, over the following five classes, the towels and mats were pushed closer and closer together and we all had to jockey for space on poses that required “lifting our arms like Boeing 447,” on the narrow hallways and, eventually, in the locker rooms. On my last visit, the cherry on the cake: the toilet in the women’s bathroom overflowed, I had nowhere to put my shoes and we ran out of hand towels. This in addition to the indignities of rubbing against the sweaty people coming out of the previous class and having neighbors drip on my mat.
So that’s where I put my foot down and said: “Funky Door Yoga, between me, your loyal and loving companion, and a horde of undisciplined newbies who walk out of the room in the middle of class (!) and who came to you because you were cheap, you chose the newbies. This shall not pass!” (Yes, i just outed them...)
So I guess this is adieu for Funky Door and I. But I have a feeling this “capitalism” thing will take a toll on their established memberships. I could tell I wasn’t the only disgruntled of the “regulars”.
Posts
