Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Mundane Observations

I miss the post-Easter Hershey’s kisses that were on the table by the door.

The thermostat in the studio clicked off this morning, signaling that the desired level of heat had been achieved. It was set for 92 degrees. The room was full today, three rows of maybe 10 people per row. The result: much heat.

How I can tell if it’s warm enough in the studio: sweat rolls down my back and my eyebrows fail in one of their chief functions, which is to prevent sweat from pouring over my brow and into my eyes.

Part One: Remember when doing a forward bend was the most physically uncomfortable thing in the universe?

Part Two: Remember getting sore the day after a yoga class? Remember Epsom salt baths and Tiger Balm?

Why does that one guy smell bad every day? Doesn’t he know he smells bad? Can’t he change something in his diet or personal sanitary habits? It’s not the fact that he smells bad that gets me—we all flush things out—it’s the overall consistency. He’s like the US Mail—he smells bad rain or shine, through hail, sleet and snow.

A Lesson in How to Sack Up: There is a gaggle of ladies visiting from Montana. Apparently they rented a camping space down the road and are camping out for the entire month, all to practice with Tim. That’s hardcore.

Several of the above-mentioned visitors are very cute.

I admire that one girl’s devotion—she’s at practice every morning, and judging by her overall flexibility (or lack thereof), she just dove in headfirst to Mysore-style ashtanga with no prior yoga experience. And she’s been coming back for months and months! It’s so lovely.

Often mid-way through practice I experience full-on food fantasies, visualizing the post-practice banana I’m going to eat, or the tall, cool glass of water I’m going to drink.

In my first-ever yoga class, we were in savasana and the two teachers read aloud several graphic excerpts on animal mutilation from John Robbins’ Diet for a New America. What the fuck?

I’m too anxious to say anything about my Mysore plans for fear of gooching them. But everything is coming together in a very frightening way. More later.