In this issue...
Yoga-tta be kidding me
The Baker’s Wife onstage
What I'm listening to
Most popular post
Yoga-tta be kidding me
Hi. It’s been a while.
I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I’ve been going through a bit of a middle-aged-privileged-woman-living-in-the-burbs crisis since my last post.
I have been trying- and failing- to find a new yoga class.
I know, I know. I’ve officially reached Gwyneth Paltrow levels of suffering. I may not have lost half a day of skiing or anything, but things haven’t exactly been a picnic either.
Trying to find a good yoga class is kinda like trying to find a good hair stylist or a good therapist: you’ve gotta wade through lots of duds until you find the right one. As with so many other things, the teacher sets the tone for the class in yoga, and personally, I like a good mix between a crunchy teacher and a practical one. For example, a teacher who throws in a little chakra talk every now and then = nice. A teacher who tells me all my problems will be cured by picturing a blue light encircling my head = not so nice. (True story). Turns out, this is a surprisingly difficult combination to find.
My current quest for the perfect yoga class has had, shall we say, some mixed results. Let’s just say things have been hovering on the blue-light end of the spectrum, with the exception of a teacher who spent a good chunk of class talking about her new hair extensions. As I wondered how ‘polyester’ would translate into Sanskrit, my mind wandered to all the other objectively insane yoga experiences I’ve had over the 15 or so years I’ve practiced.
Here are a few:
A very shaky yogi
Once, this lady brought her emotional support Chihuahua to yoga. The dog was named Stacey, and she wore a tiny blue sweater. The studio didn’t allow animals, so Stacey’s owner had sneaked her inside with a large Trader Joe’s bag. She swore that we wouldn’t know Stacey was there, and the teacher swore us all to secrecy via an ancient blood pact that would force us to permanently live under mercury retrograde if we reneged. Predictably, Stacey took turns lying on everyone's mats, licked my water bottle, and peed in the corner before finally leaving with her decidedly emotionally-unsupported owner. No word on whether anyone broke the pact, but this did happen just before the 2016 election, so…
Singing savasana
Ah, savasana- that special time at the end of class to stretch out and relax. A time for deep breathing. A time for meditation. A time for your teacher to…belt out songs from her latest yoga album?
Look, I know that truly-enlightened yogis could meditate in the middle of an actual hurricane, but I’m from north Texas. I’m gonna need some peace and damned quiet to reach anything approaching inner peace. Although, come to think of it, resisting the urge to perish from secondhand embarrassment as the teacher meandered from mat to mat loudly singing in ancient Sanskrit as we all lay prostrate was pretty next-level mindfulness. Maybe it was part of the plan all along. Not sure how the plug at the end for her YouTube channel fit into it all though.
Baby yoga gang
When my kids were babies, I used to take them to a postnatal yoga class. It was more for the moms than the babies, and usually was a nice way to get out of the house and socialize. Except for that one class that had been taken over by a baby gang.
The writing was on the wall the second I naively walked in with a backpack full of toys for my baby. The teacher made a beeline for me, saying "cover those up, cover those up, cover those up!!" as quickly and quietly as she could.
But it was too late. In a flash, I was swarmed by a gang of drooling toddlers who had tagged me as fresh meat. An 18-month-old named River seemed to be the ring leader, and he quickly stripped me of my belongings, taking them as his own and smacking down anyone who tried to get in on the action. I initially tried to give my daughter some survival tips, like making an alliance with some of the other chubby babies, but it was no use. I spent the rest of the class alternately chasing away River and attempting to breathe green smoke in and out of my heart space, as the teacher instructed.
Game of Om?
Over the years, I’ve experienced all sorts of openings to yoga class. Some teachers check in with participants, incorporating requests for specific poses and taking note of injuries. Others may share an inspirational readings or mantras. What’s not so common is for the teacher to open up class with a rousing discussion of the previous night’s Game of Thrones episode. Alas, this was the case with a class I attended regularly a few years ago.
The problem wasn’t so much that I felt left out of the conversation, having never gotten into GOT. It also wasn’t that a good ten minutes of class time were spent talking about people and places I had never heard of. The problem was more related to the speed with which we were all expected to transition from a verbal reenactment of murderous, incestuous royals in battle to a blissed-out chant of "ooooommmmmm” from the lotus pose. I said goodbye after a few weeks, wondering where I could find a studio with teachers partial to Project Runway.
Winds of change
And some days in yoga, a lady will fart her way through the entire class.
Some days this will happen when the class is packed wall to wall.
Some days her biggest fart will come when you are directly behind her, breathing deeply in cat/cow pose.
That day is the day you decide maybe it’s time to switch to Pilates.
Come see me onstage!
The Baker’s Wife opens in just less than a month and dates are already selling out! If you’re in Austin, I’d love to see your smiling face in the audience May 5- June 11 at The Alchemy Theatre Company. Come see this incredible show about life, love, and the importance of good bread! Get tickets here.
What I’m Listening To: The Fckry Podcast with Leslie Jones and Lenny Marcus
Former SNL cast member Leslie Jones is, objectively speaking, a badass. Not only is she funny as hell, she is also a fearless truth teller, and she absolutely slayed her week of guest hosting The Daily Show. (Btw, can you tell who I’m pulling for as the new permanent host? Who’s looking good to you?)
Leslie co-hosts her new podcast, The Fckry, with longtime writing partner and occasional voice of reason, Lenny Marcus. After catching the episode with Roy Wood, Jr., I was hooked. Among other segments, the show features interviews (typically with comedians), listeners soliciting advice, and the fckry of the week, a chance for Leslie and Lenny to vent about whatever is irking them at the moment. Not surprisingly, this last part is inevitably peppered with lots of four-letter words- and hilarity- from Leslie.
The Fckry is most definitely NSFW, and at times it can get a little negative for my taste. Still, there are times when you just want to hear someone go off on the same thing that’s been driving you crazy, and in such colorful language it would put Carlin to shame. Leslie is always unapologetically Leslie, including the time she called a podcast reviewer giving constructive criticism a punk a$$ b!tch. We love to see it.
My most popular post of the month
Facebook’s latest algorithms seem to be doing a number on public pages’ engagement lately, making it even more necessary to subscribe to your favorite content producers elsewhere. (Like here! Yay, you!) It’s possible I’ll need to shift to exclusively posting on Substack in the not too distant future. In the meantime, here was last month’s most popular (and very apropos) post!
Are you following me yet? You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram. Especially if I'm avoiding work.
The game of thrones/yoga mash up feels very strange!