humans are funny

Category: yoga

  • biKRAM IT.

    Uh oh. There must have been some hot towels flying yesterday. It’s a day for wearing green, you see. And that is outlawed in Bikram’s yoga studio in LA. Why, you ask? Because Bikram doesn’t like that color. And he owns the place. So you’re not allowed to wear it.

    And if you decide you want to try Bikram yoga in Manhattan Beach, you must place your water bottle to the left of your mat. Or else. You’ll get a talkin’ to. Water on the right– THE HORROR! It’s odd, especially for a hobby that’s supposed to be accepting and calming.

    I’m on my 7th year of this stuff, and I’ve always felt something was a little off, especially with the instructors. They’re Stepford Instructors and their scripts are too familiar. “Extend your right foot to make a standing ‘L’. An L like Linda.” I’ve taken classes in Spain, London, San Francisco, LA, and NY, and everyone seems to know this Linda lady. Who the hell is Linda? And what the hell is a Japanese ham sandwich? I had no idea the Japanese even ate ham sandwiches. But for seven years, every single instructor has told me to bend my body into a Japanese ham sandwich. Maybe they mean a bowl of rice.

    I have decided not to go to Bikram yoga. I don’t want to be a ham sandwich anymore. Not a Japanese one or an American one. But mainly, I don’t want to give any more money to this guy. The thought that a portion of my 10-class package went into this outfit, that car, or that hairstyle makes me want to hurl ham at every Linda I meet.

    pleather shirt AND white pants?

  • OJ Simpson was in my yoga class this morning.


    I swear. I thought he was in jail, but my eyes insist it was him sweating it out in his Speedo next to me in hot yoga this morning.

    My, oh my! So much has happened since I’ve arrived on American soil. I left again and went to Canada. I got a paycheck, the first of 2009. I cooked risottos and eggplants and stews. I hung out with my family. I sneaked into a double-feature. I got manicures and pedicures and realized that the only thing that makes you feel like a girl again after a long year of feeling like a boy is a nice pair of 5-inch heels. I rode around town on my moped. I joined the fight against Iran’s Islamic Republic. I decided I’ll never get a dog. I went on a date. I ate dinner next to Mary-Kate or Ashley. I saw a piano recital. I noticed blogs to be quite narcissistic (what’s with all the “I”s?). I made a plan for the year and then yelled at myself for making plans. I dressed like a slutty clown. I met new friends. I met old friends again. I stayed in my pajamas for a whole week straight. I learned to appreciate my little hometown and its many fragrant trees. I found a cute little apartment in Venice Beach.

    New digs!

    It turns out starting life again is a bit more difficult than I thought. So I’ll be parking this page until I set up my new little desk in its new little spot on January 9th. And then you’ll be able to read about funny humans in Venice Beach or along Route 66. Yep, I just drove my car from LA to Chicago and now I’ll be driving it back. Hoping to spot some hummus plants or maybe even the Juice. Nah, I don’t really want to spot OJ again. If I see a celebrity on my drive, it better be someone good. Like Richard Simmons.

    Have a wonderful holiday season, or whatever they say. Thank you so much for making this past year really really special for me. Smell ya in 2010.

  • Day 3: Enlightenment thwarted by womanhood

    I make my way 9 hours north to Rishikesh. It’s a hippie’s paradise. You can learn yoga, renew your chakras, or get your aura inspected. It’s where the Beatles spent 9 months getting high with the Maharishi and writing the White Album. (the exact location of that Indian tryst is now home to beggars, stray cows, and strewn about trash..)

    I decide to get enlightened and begin knocking on doors of all the teachers in town. Turns out, it’s time for local Indians to make their yearly pilgrimage to the holy city. Hence, the foreigners leave. This means that all the teachers leave (sounded fishy to me too). I find one swami who is willing to show me the path to a higher level. Or something. He explains there will be 3 types of communication.

    1. First he will watch me do the yoga poses to see my body’s potential.

    2. Next he will communicate with me through touching.

    3. Then he will communicate with me just through thinking.

    BUT… he can only attempt such a feat if I am not menstruating.

    “After all,” he says. “I am a swami.”

    Where is he planning on touching me?, I think.

    THOUGHTS: It’s hot. I still do not trust anyone.