I’ve been in London and Paris for the past two and a half weeks. It’s been fantastic. I’ve never been to Europe before, and this was such a grand awakening for me. Big cities, diversity, public transit, history!
And food. And Booze. When I was in Paris I lived on cider, cheap wine, pain au chocolat, and chèvre-and-baguette sandwiches. Pretty nice, but when I came home I was flabby, and oozing butterfat and alcohol from my pores. I needed to detox, and I figured a good power yoga class would be just what I needed.
My regular studio had only hatha and Yin classes, which is not my bag at all – I don’t want to waste time relaxing and chatting. So I looked around all the other studios, and found a power class at 10:00am that I could go to after I had dropped the kids off at school.
I arrived at Yyoga, a very upscale studio just a block from the intersection of Robson and Burrard, here in rainy Vancouver. The young women at the counter were pretty, friendly, and brandished a blank pleasantness that you find at the front desk of most high end businesses. I had to provide ID, answer a questionnaire, and sigh a very long waiver. I felt like I was in a doctor’s office, but I tried to ignore that.
They gave me a tour. Yyoga has a boutique, a lounge with complimentary wi-fi and green tea, and three studio rooms: ‘Earth,’ ‘Wind’, and ‘Fire.’ My class was in ‘Fire.’
When I walked in, I saw a trim man in his fifties lying on a mat. He wore short-shorts and nothing else. Now why is that man almost naked? I asked. Then I felt the great rush of heat flowing out the door.
It was a hot class! I avoid hot classes like the plague. Why does anyone take them? But I had already paid, and I was committed. I went to the changing rooms (keys, towels, and mats are available. Like I said, this place is upscale), got changed, and went back out and laid down on my mat.
The class was full. I was one of four men, but I’m used to that.
As for the class? Well, I’ve never done yoga in the rich, big-city way. I’ve been curious. And it was different.
We began with stretching – aligning the hips, getting the side-body warm. Then, strangely, a long series of ab-crunchers, as one would do in a pilates class. Then we sat and did breathing exercises out of each nostril to the beat of a metronome. I thought this was going to be lame.
Then the work started. I was… shocked, to say the least. The teacher made us do highly advanced positions – handstands and forearm stands without the help of a partner or even a nearby wall. Around me, people were falling left and right. Side planks with my bottom leg stretched on the outside of my shoulder (I failed at this). Half-moon and reverse half-moon poses while keeping the hands from touching the ground. I would have been happy to try all these things, but not in this heat!
This is why yoga is so problematic. I’ve been lucky enough to find one, and only one, good teacher. The rest have been too dumb, too earnest, too chatty, too emotional, too blasé, too annoying, or too soft. This teacher, while technically proficient and confident, was too dangerous. Hence, I suppose, the long waiver that precludes me from taking legal action if I were to fall on my head and give myself a concussion.
This was yoga for the type-A and the competitive. This is yoga for your body as a tune-up is for your luxury car. It would have been fine as it was, but the heated room sent my tolerance careening off the edge. Only for those who need a challenge, and some risk alongside.
