How to be basic: a guide to yoga

Yoga. It’s one of those things that us white folk just adopted as one of our own and pretend like it was our culture all along. I can’t really think of another example from history of this, but it will come to me. Yoga brings forth images of tight pants, wrist infinity tattoos and water bottles that are actually just mason jars, because bringing along glassware with an awkward lid just seems downright practical, rather than inner peace.

But, I won’t lie. I too tried to welcome yoga into my life. And I mean more than just the occasional downward dog on the Hill. (You see, I got the lingo down.)
My voyage into the land of Namaste started with a class that was basically a feel-good afternoon, where you lay still as someone tells you that you are awesome and really should just keep being awesome. I agreed. So I came back every week. Then, however, the class was extended to an hour and half. And let’s face it: I got things to do. I can’t be zenning out for 90 minutes at a time. Just give me my emotional high-five and let’s move on.

So then came Tantric Yoga. “Ooh, you vixen, you!” you might be thinking. “What sexy time that must have been,” you might ponder with a mason jar of kombucha in your hand. You are mistaken. Images of said three-hour exercise in awkwardness still haunt my dreams. They promised us we would find our soulmates there. They promised! Yet, my soul never felt darker or lonelier afterwards. The man who looked like a 1920s strongman left little doubt in my mind why he was still looking for love. And so, after three hours of giving strangers back rubs and feeding each other bananas, I went home.

Yet, even that didn’t deter me from yoga; though it did deter me from bananas for a while. And so came time for Acroyoga. This here is a magical thing that turns you into a circus performer in an instant, if you are ok with diving headfirst into a stranger’s crotch. And for a while, I was. I sat atop strangers’ feet, I dove into crotches and I balanced others. But every good thing must come to an end.

For me, it was time for Hot Yoga. Ahh, sweating profusely in the company of others – nothing gets my motor revving more than that. You develop sweat spots in places you didn’t know could sweat and soon abandon all hope of ever feeling desirable again. I longed for the 1920s strongman. I wanted to feel pretty.

But last week, I found the right yoga for me. This was Aerial Yoga. At last, I felt, I found my calling. No more holding downward dog poses that others make look like sleek triangles, while I resembled an old woman with a hump. Tree poses that make me question whether I would ever pass the drunk balance test sober shall be no more. No more! The hammock does it all for you. Nestled in the sweet, sweet cocoon of a hammock, you are free to pretend you did something good for your health. Next time, I’m bringing a Corona.  

The Polite Baby and the Rebel youth

Public transit is like a party, for which no one was in charge of curbing the guest list.

“Gary, why is your accountant here? Did you invite her?”
“No man, did you invite the homeless man?”
“Why is there a clown riding a llama?”

Literally, anyone can and will show up. Sometimes, these are just belligerent old men who loudly proclaim the demise of society as damn women started to get education.

Sometimes, it’s a rebellious youth who didn’t consider nasal needs when getting his awkwardly placed piercing and thus sits there sniffling, just trying to free that trapped booger that’s hanging onto his piercing.

He’s probably thinking: “Damnit, I won’t let my parents get the better of me. Sure, it’s uncomfortable and sure the sniffles have cost me many a romantic possibility, but goddamnit, I’m keeping these!” And he sniffles.

But sometimes, babies load up.

There were two of these passengers today. Now, not being a mother myself, I can’t really give an age estimate on these two babes. All I can pretty well guarantee is that they were out of the womb but not yet in college. If pressed, I would guess less than a year.

One was a thug life show-off baby. The other was a polite baby.

At first, the interaction between these two was limited as neither had noticed the other across the aisle. And so we sat there and watched.

The polite baby, free of her pesky gloves, stretched out her fingers and with gratitude, she smiled at her mom who had liberated her from the entrapment of her pink gloves.

The show-off baby started reaching into the cup holders for stale Cheerios and humblebragging to the whole bus. His speech was limited to undecipherable baby noises, so allow me to translate.

“Yo, look at all these Cheerios I could have if I wanted to. But I won’t. I can just toss this one into the aisle, because I will get more.”

Polite baby smiles.

Show-off baby starts belligerently babbling on and bragging, presumably, about his cool shoes that had dogs on them. I would brag too, truthfully, had I had shoes like that.

At this point, the two babies locked eyes. It was on.

Show-off baby leaned back all casual-like in his stroller. He ain’t got to impress nobody.

Polite baby shot out enormous snot out of her delicate nose.

The bus audience froze with faces of horror.

We watched in silence as the snot hang on her porcelain face, threatening to continue its journey elsewhere.

The mom reacted quickly and cleaned her off. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

Polite baby turned around and audibly thanked her mom. She knew what could’ve happened.

As the bus pulled into the stop, both babies had to get off. You know, baby stuff to do.

Polite baby waved at everyone, gently cooing “bye” as she was wheeled off the bus.

The show-off baby continued to babble loudly, probably still bragging about Cheerios he can soon consume.