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.