ahream

I’ve been showing up at the same yoga studio more-or-less dutifully for the past three years. In that three years, I have made no measurable progress whatsoever in any number of poses including the nefarious “standing split.” I believe this is largely due to the fact that I have never been a circus acrobat. However, I do notice that when I don’t show up to thoroughly embarrass myself amongst the spandex-ed and flexible people, I stop being able to do other more important things – like bend over far enough to tie my own shoes. This is either because I run too much or the studio manager has a voodoo doll with my name on it. Hard to say.

So this morning when I made the semi-conscious decision to sleep through the sunrise “all levels” class, I still felt compelled to show up for the somewhat later “intermediate to advanced” class. Three years! I thought. Surely after three years, I’m intermediate, right?

Uh. No.

Let me walk you through a pose, shall I? Okay, place your right foot flat on the floor with a straight knee. Now hinge forward until you can place your right hand flat on the floor six inches in front of your foot. Raise your left leg straight out behind you so that your head, butt and foot make a flat line. Now raise your left arm straight up to the ceiling. Okay, got it? Yeah, me neither. And no, I will not be taking three cleansing breaths in this position, thank you.

The only “advanced” position that I can reliably perform is “wheel,” which is just a fancy yoga way of saying “do a backbend.” It is, however, virtually impossible to feel superior about an activity easily mastered by your average four-year-old.

Afterwards, sweaty and with a ponytail that had somehow migrated six inches to the left, possibly during “king pigeon” pose, my instructor came over to hug me. She was either congratulating me on not dislocating my hip or offering her condolences. It was never quite clear. But because I am a sick, sick woman, I signed up for another round on my way out.

Oh, I will get my hand flat on the floor. Oh yes, I will.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
:: JOURNAL HOME :: SUBSCRIBE TO THIS JOURNAL :: WWW.AHREAM.COM :: FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER :: PHOTOS :: MYSPACE :: EMAIL ::
Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (2) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-11-26 2:49 PM Down doggy I’ve been showing up at the same yoga studio more-or-less dutifully for the past three years. In that three years, I have made no measurable progress whatsoever in any number of poses including the nefarious “standing split.” I believe this is largely due to the fact that I have never been a circus acrobat. However, I do notice that when I don’t show up to thoroughly embarrass myself amongst the spandex-ed and flexible people, I stop being able to do other more important things – like bend over far enough to tie my own shoes. This is either because I run too much or the studio manager has a voodoo doll with my name on it. Hard to say. So this morning when I made the semi-conscious decision to sleep through the sunrise “all levels” class, I still felt compelled to show up for the somewhat later “intermediate to advanced” class. Three years! I thought. Surely after three years, I’m intermediate, right? Uh. No. Let me walk you through a pose, shall I? Okay, place your right foot flat on the floor with a straight knee. Now hinge forward until you can place your right hand flat on the floor six inches in front of your foot. Raise your left leg straight out behind you so that your head, butt and foot make a flat line. Now raise your left arm straight up to the ceiling. Okay, got it? Yeah, me neither. And no, I will not be taking three cleansing breaths in this position, thank you. The only “advanced” position that I can reliably perform is “wheel,” which is just a fancy yoga way of saying “do a backbend.” It is, however, virtually impossible to feel superior about an activity easily mastered by your average four-year-old. Afterwards, sweaty and with a ponytail that had somehow migrated six inches to the left, possibly during “king pigeon” pose, my instructor came over to hug me. She was either congratulating me on not dislocating my hip or offering her condolences. It was never quite clear. But because I am a sick, sick woman, I signed up for another round on my way out. Oh, I will get my hand flat on the floor. Oh yes, I will. Read/Post Comments (2) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top