It Had to Happen

I spent the morning before my first class alternately crying and doing farm chores. Crying because I wanted to feel more confident about my dialogue before teaching my first class, but knew I hadn't practised enough [and doing farm chores because those danged beasts will keep eating and crapping.] Of course, no surprise, the more spazzed I became, the fewer lines I could recall. Finally it was time to get the lycra on, get in the car, and drive to the studio. I was greeted very warmly by studio staff, and the wonderful Owl was there to give me a few tips on microphone use, etc. What I liked was that no one was making a big deal of it being my first class, but rather treating it like an everyday occurrence. Yeah, here's your mike, there's the podium, see yez in 90. Oh, and don't fuck with the thermostat.
 
The ever-kind Peter also came to my first class -- since he was my first Bikram teacher a year ago, I was really touched to see him in the studio. Owl continued her wonderfulness by practising directly in front of the podium so I could look to her for cues if I got stuck. And yes, I did get stuck a handful of times in that first class, but I watched Owl quite carefully and, while I may not have been reciting verbatim dialogue, I had enough of it to get students in and out of postures. Got one posture out of order, but the experienced students piped up (bless 'em), and I nearly forgot Wind-Removing Pose, but again with the pipe-ups from the very patient class. At the end of the class I had only gone four minutes over time. To Owl, Peter, and every one of the students there: my most heartfelt thanks.
 
My second class was early this morning, 7:00 a.m., about 16 or so hours after my first class. It was a delight, although I have to lock down the text a bit more: my Locust postures were really only "dialoguey." Still: no one died. I had another dozen or so very kind, smiling students, and I relaxed enough to remember more lines. I still don't think of myself as a yoga teacher the way I think of the others at the studio as teachers, BUT: I've got Class #3 tomorrow night, and will start my day by taking my first class from Bettina, She Who Kept Me Mostly Sane during Training.
 
Full circle: yoga-loving student to teacher trainee to teacher of other students. I wrote down, during one of Himself's lectures, a line he frequently recites: "There is no yoga "do." There is only yoga "try," because you are constantly learning." The yoga counterpart to Yoda. And so I'll keep trying and learning. Thanks again, everyone.

Worth a try

I dropped into the Bikram studio in Santa Cruz. Lovely town, lovely, spacious studio, but no Shawn (Born Happy the Evaluator) to be seen. Waah. So I bought a T-shirt to console myself. Funny that I didn't get a Bikram San Diego T-shirt, but a "Hell Cajon" studio shirt instead. Anyway: Star-breakfasted in Santa Cruz, and am currently Star-lunching in Willows, CA -- the same place I Star-lunched on the way down, back on September 17th.
 
Bored yet? The reason I am writing at present is that THE MIGHTY BETTINA is halfway through teaching her first class at home in Victoria. Rock that Half Moose, Bettina! I so wish I were there. Soon, I tells ya, soon.

Random thoughts in Santa Cruz

"Buy new cooler:" the Bengali pronunciation of "binocular."
 
I nearly broke myself trying not to cry when goodbying Bettina, Jana and the mad Greek roomie, Jayna. Of course, I'm seeing Bettina in a few days, but the goodbye was to the whole experience.
 
Took the 101 north this time to get a little ocean beauty in my databanks. My spirit needed the serenity. First it had to deal with the terror of the monsoon-strength rain and surprise hydroplaning north of San Diego, and the "Uh-oh, missed the turnoff" moment in Los Angeles. But I found the damn road again, and soon the urban sprawl gave way to unbelievable coastal beauty.
 
Am I saving time, staying in Santa Cruz? Nope: this was an impulse route change. I really wanted to see one of my favourite cities again. Arrived just at sunset, so tomorrow I'll take a quick drive downtown before resuming the northward journey.
 
Drove approximately 8 hours, shorter than my usual day's drives, but I remembered that I was going on practically no sleep, not the best setup for an interstate drive anywhere, but particular not California. Oh, I do love this state.
 
The beginning of post-training perspective: realizing that the heartsoreness of the last two weeks was trying to tell me something. That another change is on the way, and it's not going to be easy. There's a goddamned bulletin. Relax, Laur, I'm not moving to Tegucigalpa or Ouagadougou. What it is, is basic Lord Jim: actions have consequences, toots. [Good thing I read that Golden Classic comic book way back when . . . saved myself some time in university.]
 
Possible plan: drop in at Santa Cruz's Bikram studio to say hello to Shawn, aka "Born Happy" from our posture clinics. Such a nice man.

Pack your suitcases each other

Packing. The Mazdad isn't going to know what hit it.
 
So that's it, then. Graduated yesterday, and enjoyed a classic Himself moment: as I posed for my picture with Himself, I said, "I'm never going to forget you." Himself: "I know!" Graduation took place on the rainiest day in nine weeks, and yes, I enjoyed seeing everyone in real clothing, posing for pictures with friends, introducing new lifetime friends to family members.
 
Didn't sleep much at all. Fretting about the drive (terrible weather up north, and who didn't get the snow tires put on in mid-September? Who couldn't think nine weeks ahead? -- right, me). Fretting about not remembering the dialogue for the 26 'n' 2.
 
Packing and crying, of course, at the end of an unequalled experience. It had to end in order to qualify for an experience, I realize. Ow. Heart hurt. Must return to packing.
 
See you all. And thanks.

These people, I tell you . . .

Everywhere you look in Yogaterra, people are excited. About today being the last day of class and lectures. About tomorrow being graduation, the day that would never come. About going home. About teaching Class Number One OH MY GOD. Everywhere you look there are cameras and hugs and camaraderie.
 
This time next Friday I'll be digesting myself as the minutes tick away to 3:45 p.m., my first class. By then the magnificent Bettina will already have taught two. Note to self: now would be a good time to rehearse them thar postures.
 
Yesterday we had the legendary Emmy Cleaves back to teach us class, and she came by and adjusted my stance in Triangle Posture, pushing my hip down a half-inch, that made a huge difference, especially in muscle contraction. I don't think, ultimately, that I lost any weight during training, because I've been building muscle fibres by the cartload. I'll always be a cement-bodied sweaty head, but by god a *toned* cement body after all these classes.
 
Last night one of the Fab Five, Chrissy, came by and surprised me with a thank-you gift ["The Daily Intellectual Devotional," a hardcover book that is heroin to know-it-alls] and a card. Thanks for driving her and the other Fabs to the laundromat, grocery store, etc. Chrissy, let me say it here: the thanks are all mine for you and the others being such good friends. I was overcome with surprise and touched by Chrissy's thoughtful generosity, and after we'd chatted for awhile, she took herself off to get ready for evening lecture, and I sat down and had a good, short wail. I've turned into quite the emotional diva as Teacher Training ends, I tell you. I can just see it now, I'll walk into the studio next Friday, climb onto the podium, and announce "My name is Jane, and I am your yoga-waaaaaaaa. . ." And all this time people have assumed my yoga towels were drenched with sweat. Nope: tears.
 
But since they've screwed up my billing a second time, I won't shed a drop for the hotel accounting staff, I tell you now.

Busted!

My one rule about asking questions in Himself's posture clinics is this: is it relevant to teacher trainees? If yes, continue. So I asked whether new students could part their legs at the beginning of Full Locust, and then bring them together. Before he answered, Himself identified me as "the one who is always seeming to fall asleep in my lectures, even though I know she is listening, and look, now I know you have eyes, okay, go ahead." The answer? "No. Make them do it right." I checked my headbob-jaggy lecture notes for Locust, and I had written down that in the double leg-lift, students *could* start with legs apart, as long as they immediately closed them after lifting. Did I ask for an explanation of the discrepancy? Did I, hell. I was happy to escape with being called "Boss" instead of "Sweetheart." Again: I am absolutely unable to figure that man out at all. It's quite a delightful sensation.

Look Back, Pt. 1

My study group, or Group Four, as we affectionately called ourselves, was made up of 21 people from all backgrounds and abilities. Since I wrote earlier about one member of the group who met with Karma in the form of a Boston teacher, it is only fair to tell the rest of the story. After the Boston instructor commanded this woman, D., to learn the dialogue kinesthetically, i.e., while performing the posture, or even while walking, DAMN if she didn't do just that. Her next presentation was a vast improvement, even though she tripped up near the end. A couple more clinics, and she delivered one of the most difficult dialogues (Triangle) nearly word-perfectly. I don't know about the rest of the group, but I was absolutely gobsmacked at the change. From then, D. went on to deliver each posture's dialogue with a minimum of stress, almost matter-of-factly. I think a certain Boston teacher deserves a standing ovation. As does D.
 
The other marked evolution in our group was U., who was an ESL student, and was so concerned about getting the dialogue right that she had effectively paralysed herself. It was quite hard to watch her struggle, and sometimes break down crying, when she'd mix up some words. She was taken aside by the estimable Lynn W., a senior teacher and staff member, and I never learned what happened during these dialogue coaching sessions, but U. came back transformed. By the end of posture clinics she was laughing, in tune with the students, and even offering corrections to inattentive demonstrators (uh, sorry about that one, U. I was distracted by a chandelier).
 
I will always be in awe of certain trainees with exceptional dialogue presentations (hello, Fed, Chelsea, Brian, Heather, and Chrissy) -- yet in some way it is almost more awesome to witness these transformations. I wouldn't have believed them possible, that's for sure.

Nicely done

Mad props to Schuyler and Anabelle from my study group, who competed in the Southern Cal Yoga championships yesterday. It was enjoyable watching them and other teacher trainees move through 5 compulsory and 2 "freestyle" postures. That's the first championship I've ever been to, and if you ever want to see a crowd of about 500 people turn their heads in irritated unison, forget to turn your cellphone off. The sinner, who apparently didn't hear Dom's repeated requests to turn all phones off, was a grandfatherly type, so escaped being pulled into Balancing Stick position by those around him, but it was a close one.
 
Sunday evening saw the Fab Five back in La Jolla for a Lululemon open house. Several trainees were there trying out their new teacher discounts. Three of the Five bought various apparel. I didn't because I've always felt the clothing was horribly overpriced. A shirt for $78? No thankee.
 
So it is the last week here at Teacher Training, and for me, anyway, feelings are mixed. I recall that they were likewise mixed before teacher training started, so at the very least I'm consistent. This week should see us learning important teaching details, like timing our dialogue delivery so our classes stay at the 90-minute mark. I'll also be dealing with a very full heart (and sweaty eyeballs) for the next while.

Sunday Morning, and . . .

Back: Still locked. I just wish I could lock my left knee like I can lock my lumbar vertebrae. Going to phone for a massage, I think. Silly back.
 
Roomie: Amazing. Fabulous. Surprised me with a gift last night of a psychedelic head scarf and a joke book titled "What Would Jane Do?" Naturally I got all teary. Thanks again, Jayna, you mad Greek, you. You're the best yoga roomie that ever there was.
 
Fabulous Five: Tore around Hillcrest and University Heights. Laundried and groceried. Invasion of Old San Diego accomplished with minimal casualties. Attended an art exhibition late at night, because we are spontaneous and addicted to unique jewellery.
 
On today's slate: yoga competition, featuring a study classmate. More yoga outfits on sale. Talk of an outing to yet another yoga togs supplier. How much spandex can one person have who is not a member of an '80s metal tribute band? We shall see.
 
Rumour, good or bad? If it's about Dr. Preddy coming back for our graduation next Saturday, then it is a very good rumour. I'll try to indulge in it sparingly. No expectations! But it would be lovely to see him again. [UPDATE: It's true, it's true! The man himself replied to a FB query and said he'd see us all on Saturday. Excellent news.]

Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful Jo

Our last Saturday class was taught by Jo, a woman who embodies loving kindness and compassion -- I bet the Buddha has her on speed dial. I was lucky enough, as was my study group, to have Jo as an evaluator in at least four clinics, and each time I was calmed and encouraged by her cheerful, peaceful glow. Yet Jo was no push-over; one student, who had not endeared himself to classmates with his couldn't-care-less attitude towards learning dialogue, tried to get away with telling the demonstrators, "Well, you are teachers, so you know what to do." Jo straightened up and said, gently but firmly, "No. You are the teacher. They are your students. You tell them what to do." Silent hurrahs were the order of the day among the other students.
 
Jo, to you, for all the help and encouragement you've given us, please accept my gratitude (and thank you for giving me the chance to let it off the leash once again). You are a grand human. I'll never forget you.

Wee Kate

Another fly-by week here in the Teacher Training empire. As a former Classics student, I can appreciate certain timeless imperial aspects of such a setting. Proscription being one of them. After Monday afternoon's debrief with a couple of volunteers, I decided to revive the anablog, i.e., pen on paper (or stylus on wax tablet if you want to go all ancient). There was a much-needed bright spot after the debriefing: I decided to go back to basics. The love of this yoga is why I'm here. I'll just get back to focusing on the yoga for the next coupla' weeks. And dang if that didn't do the trick. Note: my practice still sucks so hard its cheeks are meeting in the middle.
 
Reminder: Facebook, while enabling me to contact many people I couldn't otherwise, and has been the portal to many worthwhile life moments, also has caused some considerable ruckus in an already disorganized existence. Is your life too peaceful? Try consolidating your friends list for some instant chuckles. Huh boy. Those adept with social media can rightfully say that I'm the agent of all my misfortunes online, but still. Effing FACEBOOK is all.
 
Posturized yogis: This week we finished the posture clinics for all 26 yoga poses in the Bikram Beginning Series. I had one serious blank in the second last clinic, working on Head to Knee With Stretching. Knee to my head is what I needed to get the words back. Sorry about that, kids. The last clinic, Spine-Twisting Posture, aka "Final Spinal," probably wasn't my most glorious moment, either. There's a line from the dialogue that starts "H-E-E-L, your heel should touch the knee," which I delivered clearly, and then -- aieee -- nothing. I blinked, and said, "F-U-C-K, fuck, I've dropped the dialogue." The audience, bless 'em, went with it, and I regained my composure enough to give the rest of the lines more or less verbatim. Afterwards I assured the evaluators (the lovely Jo, Nikki and Jackie) that, no, I really wouldn't say such a thing in a real class. So that's it for working with a net . . . the next time I say those words in front of others, they'll be real students. Yes, it is causing me to snort awake with panic at least once a night.
 
You know it's Week Eight when: you have guest yogis teaching the yoga classes, skilled teachers whose generous hearts prompt them to share their accumulated wisdom about teaching, yoga, and life with the group of trainees. Some of whom are lying on their mats, muttering "Will you for the love of God SHUT UP?" Of course, we've also been told that some things we hear won't make sense until we've been teachers for awhile. I can see why . . . current fatigue levels have made the prospect of learning even one more thing feel like pushing an elephant uphill in a shopping cart.
 
Overall: A much, much happier week, funnier, more accepting, more worldly wise. I've enjoyed Himself's peripatetic (showoff word, sorry) lecture style, really enjoyed Mrs. Himself's talks, and tried not to honk with laughter at the ticked-off Bettina's sighs over a lecture she considered pointless (not one from Himself or the Missus, I hasten to add). I know I'm going to miss the hell out of these people and most of these situations. One more week. It's been a gift.

Well, THAT'S inconvenient.

Major back spasm. Not quite as bad as the one from the summer, when it took me 20+ minutes to get out of bed each morning, but still: dang. I was told before I came here that body breakdown is a natural side-effect of the intensive yoga training, but I also knew that my back and core were stronger than ever. Still, when the problem stems from a congenital spine deformity, no amount of exercise is going to prevent the occasional choke 'n' spaz. Paging Dr. Ibu!

Where'd those words go?

Head to Knee with Stretching Pose: I read, I wrote, I recited, I repeated. And yet, when I got to the podium yesterday afternoon, I performed with about as much grace as my ass would if it were chewing gum. Those poor demonstrators. Those poor evaluators. And, dammit, I couldn't even appreciate how funny a classmate's performance was (he'd been assigned to be a distraction as I taught). Dammit is all.
 
Now on to the last posture clinics, and the delivery of Ardha-Matsyendrasana, or Final Spinal. As teaching an actual class gets ever closer, my short-term memory gets ever spazzier. Back at it, toots.

A Favourite

Q: How many Vietnam vets does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: You don't know, man! You weren't there! You'll never know!
 
For "Vietnam vet," read "Bikram Teacher Trainee." There really is no way of accurately or succinctly describing this experience. I can't predict anything here, or accuse anyone of being a yoga stereotype. I have also never been so cascaded with humanity, with sheer pleasure in the company of others. My infrequent "argh" moments are overwhelmed by moments of silent bliss. I still know why I'm here. I still know I'm not perfect, and in fact, do not ever wish to be other than I am. Jane flawed. Full of love, but flawed.
 
I have been informed that I've hurt a couple of people's feelings this past week. Well, it was a dungeon-dank week, full of bizarreness. I'm not close to these people, but I regret hurting their feelings anyway. It wasn't done with malice aforethought. But it's done. From their perspective I must seem like a total asshole, but . . . they're not here, and they can't really know what happens to one's brain in these circumstances. For what it's worth, though, I offer my apologies.
 
Back to basics for me: concentrate on that there yoga! Lock that frickin' knee. We are not at home to Mr. Despondency. Watch out, here comes Head to Knee with Stretching. So I can't tell my left from my right! Just bend the other leg, dammit.

True story

We lived in Edmonton in the '80s in a weird little white bungalow about two blocks from the university. It was a house that didn't fit the lot, so the original owners had the builders set it sideways. Instead of a front and back door, we had two side doors. No true front window, only a dining room window. (The living room full window showed the neighbour's front yard.) The kitchen joined the dining room, which opened into the living room. From the kitchen, you could see past the dining table to the living room fireplace.
 
One day Dad came home from work and was in the kitchen fixing himself a drink, bagging at me about something or other. I was sitting in the living room, across from the fireplace, and I was in no mood to listen to Dad's grumpiness. So I made the talky-talky hand sign and screwed up my face, mimicking his grouchy words, wagging my finger. ONLY THEN did I remember that there was a mirrored wall over the fireplace, which could be seen in full from the kitchen -- and which showed everything that appeared in the living room. Heh heh. Er...love ya, Daddy-o! [Epilogue: I was not killed, only subjected to a glare that would have blistered paint.]
 
Moral and parable: Just because I think nobody's watching what I'm doing doesn't mean that I am invisible to others. And just because I can't believe others would bother to pay the slightest attention to what I do, doesn't mean they don't. UPSHOT: "Kind" and "Mindful" are the words of the week -- in fact, of the rest of my life.

The Buddha done got mah number

"Just as the royal frontier fortress has a gatekeeper—wise, experienced, intelligent—to keep out those he doesn’t know and to let in those he does, for the protection of those within and to ward off those without; in the same way a disciple of the noble ones is mindful, highly meticulous, remembering and able to call to mind even things that were done and said long ago. With mindfulness as his gatekeeper, the disciple of the noble ones abandons what is unskillful, develops what is skillful, abandons what is blameworthy, develops what is blameless, and looks after himself with purity."
—Anguttara Nikaya 7.63

As Jane goes on tripping over shrapnel from last week's mayhem. Huh boy.

Oh, yes, I really could

Live here, that is. Because it's going to be hard to leave San Diego. I love this city. Friendly people, lots of creativity, and that salt-water thingey ... right, the Pacific. Irresistible, all of 'em. Drove up to Encinitas today so that two of my three companions could freeze to death on the loveliest of beaches, while attempting to nap. As a cement-bodied sweaty head I simply couldn't understand how two lean yoginis like Jayna and Chrissy could find the fresh ocean breeze a tad chilly, but then I was cavorting along the strand with the third pal, Heather, so didn't notice anything but the bright sun, the surfers, and the rolling breakers. Finally we turned around, walked back to the cryogenic duo, chipped the ice off their limbs and got them to walk back to the car. They admitted that the bright sun was lovely, once their larynxes had thawed enough.
 
Finally, FINALLY, ordered a burrito à la carte instead of a full meal presentation, and still couldn't finish the monster. Quite delicious, though. Yes, I'm going to miss the incredible Mexican food down here, too.

The Janus Week

No puns about Jane and "anus," please. What I mean is, this week had two very different faces. It was also the week that was horrible until it wasn't.
 
Monday night's class was taught by a grim Latvian man who, as I described earlier, talked so fast that I thought I was at a cattle auction back in Alberta. Some people, especially younger women, thought he was great. Others, such as Bettina and I, thought he was arrogant.
 
Tuesday night's lecture: Dom, whose name must be getting close to "Doom" by now, had to tell us all that there'll be no yearbook for this year's TT. Reason? The expense. Poor Dom, always having to be the cold spoon in the souffle.
 
Thursday I also found out that one of my favourite volunteers, a man whose face always made me feel peaceful, was fired for having a relationship with one of the trainees. This breaks the "no F*cky-f*cky" rule (the other rules include "No drinky-drinky" and "No smoky-smoky"). The trainee was not asked to leave. At first it was another "Oh no, you're kidding me" moment. Later more details surfaced that brought up the question as to whether the volunteer had wanted to leave, and sought a reason. I don't know the real reason, but I do know that I'm sad he's gone -- and I do not resent the trainee involved, which apparently puts me in the minority. I don't know both sides of the story, but I'm sad it's a story at all, you know?
 
And then, when the oddly dark week seemed like it couldn't get any darker, Himself went off on a fairly sexist tangent in Friday morning's class that led to several people shouting at him in anger during the class, and one student confronting him afterwards. You could almost see the fury clouds gathering over the resort, people were that upset. As for me, well . . . I'm pretty used to Himself's cultural and gender-specific biases by now, so I repeated the wisdom of the old and hale psychiatrist: Ach, who listens? But I was disturbed to hear that the student who confronted Himself was told to get out of the training camp there and then -- however, she was in class today (Saturday), so I'm hopeful that she'll be able to stay. But what anger and grief and cruelty in the heart of yogaland! I couldn't get over what a bitter week it had become.
 
And then . . . Friday afternoon, the redemption. Three yogis from Victoria are currently in town: Ida, Niecia and Veronika. I had the chance to give Niecia and Veronika a ride to Whole Foods, and they cheerfully coached me through the dialogue for Camel Posture. Next, in posture clinic, who shows up but Niecia! Yay! And it was a delight from beginning to end. I was asked to leave the room before delivering dialogue, and in my absence the evaluators Jo, Noella and Niecia got everyone, not just the usual three demonstrators, but everyone in the room to follow my instructions. I came striding into the room and -- WHOA! -- and suddenly I couldn't stop grinning. I had so much fun delivering the dialogue to the crowd, some of whom had been coached to misbehave, that at the end I nearly danced a jig. Niecia's and Veronika's coaching really paid off. In fact, I couldn't stop chuckling throughout the rest of the clinic, especially when Peter F. and I were asked to misbehave during a fellow student, Mark's, dialogue. Peter got me giggling so hard I nearly had to leave the room.
 
In this happy and relieved mood I went to the yoga bubble for evening class, and -- wow! No way! Ida was teaching! Ida's a world silver medallist in yoga, and is one of the most energizing yoginis out there. I realized, as she began, that I really missed her classes -- and the other yogis from home. Suddenly the week of darkness and rage began to beam with laughter and comfort. I remembered why this is such an incredible, soul-satisfying experience. I don't say that the awful parts of the week were worth it, but I do know that even a yoga-filled life is going to have its bad moments.
 
So Week Seven is nearly gone, which means only two weeks remain. I get a little choked when I think of saying goodbye to my new and very dear friends. So I don't think I will say goodbye to them, just give them a heads up to expect me on their doorsteps before too long. Because if they can put up with a week this this, let alone a friend like me, you know they're amazing.

Unsafe at any distance

Okay, yoga pals across the world: if you ever get the chance to take a yoga class from (or with) Fed Zanni, YOU MUST DO SO. But I warn you: your self control will be useless. Fed's from London, and is an actor, and is brilliant. There. He's pretty much a legend here in Teacher Training, not only for his amazing dialogue recall, but also for his limitless generosity in helping other trainees. Both times I've been in posture clinic with him, I've been amazed at his alacrity in helping us do our best.
 
There is, however, a dangerous side to Fed: his humour. At last night's lecture, Dom announced that a woman student had reported seeing a male student urinate outside the yoga tent during class. In a blink Fed was on his feet, saying, innocently, that he hadn't meant to do it, he couldn't help it, and he was very sorry. All this in his resonant, corner-reaching voice, with the most humble, angelic expression on his face. I was three seats away from him and instantly collapsed, honking.
 
This morning, Fed practiced yoga next to me, in the front row. Whenever Himself would shout "Are you ready? Yes or no?" Fed would shout "NO!"--again with a completely neutral face. Just before the second set of Camel, Himself repeated his familiar harangue about western women not having "the right grip" to keep their men. "Yeah!" shouted Fed. "Right on!" Meanwhile Jane tries to hold Camel while convulsing with mirth. Camelgasm? Not quite, but it'll do.
 
Fed, what a pleasure to have met you. I can't wait to see what you'll be up to next.

In which we outsmart ourselves

It never fails: whenever Bettina and I try to anticipate our places in the yoga bubble or in the posture clinic, we get it wrong. This week Himself is supposed to be teaching the morning classes (although he didn't today), so in anticipation of a slightly sleep deprived and therefore crankier guru, Bettina and I have set our mats down in outermost Bikramia -- i.e., as far to the edge as possible, to stay out of his view. But when Himself is not there, this effort seems pointless. In posture clinics, we try to bag places against the wall, only to have the evaluators come in the room and evaluate that our sitting place is exactly where they should be sitting, or where the demonstrators should set up.
 
There is a lesson in everything, say the enlightened. This lesson? Wherever we are is perfect. Except when it isn't.

Ok, that's IT.

ENOUGH WITH THE GODDAMNED CAMELGASM.

Bad Day at Bik Rock

Morning: Awake to a bad brain. How bad? Caveman bad. Class with Himself goes to 105 minutes. Jane not tickled, except for having run into Ida Ripley, the yoga champ and teacher from home. Hello, Ida! Now back to regularly scheduled crabby batface.
 
Afternoon: Another evaluator on the precious side. Not want. Do not deliver dialogue for Bow Pose because cannot get near podium. Where all keeners come from? Fine, I clap hands.
 
Evening class: Not sure if I practise yoga or buy cattle -- teacher talk loud, rough, too fast. First time ever that pranayama breathing makes angry. After class, Jane friend ask: teacher big scheisskopf, yes? Yes.
 
Late night lecture come up with Himself, not in tent but in ballroom. Remember bum pillow. Remember food. Try smile. Where smash-club at?