Got to sleep in, though I don't feel rested. Never took a nap yesterday, nor did I drink enough water. And I had wine with dinner last night. You get so used to having 2 classes a day, you forget how vulnerable your body is to anything vaguely toxic.
Last night, Chris arranged a little reunion dinner for DC-to-LA transplants. We met at Buca di Beppo in Santa Monica. Santa Monica is a cute, cute, cute neighborhood of shiny shops and restaurants. I passed the Lululemon yogawear shop and heard choirs of angels. Maybe normal things just seem sparkly to me because I'm used to living in sweat and grime.
Why, oh why did no one tell me that evenings here are freezing? Why didn't I think to check the weather before I packed? All I brought was hot weather clothes. I would sell my right arm for some jeans and a sweater. Tonight I borrowed some layers from Chasity. I have exactly 10 minutes before I have to be at the restaurant, so I duck into the Santa Monica Goodwill. I buy a Paul Frank t-shirt, a long denim skirt, and a sweater, and change right in the aisle of the Goodwill because they have no dressing room.
The gathering was Chris, me, Jon Cohn, Kevin Price, Richard Dorton & girlfriend, David Levine, and Beth. I'd never met David or Beth, which is sort of amazing, given the number of intersections at the table. Everyone at that table had done at least one show together, though not with any other person. I've done separate shows with Chris, Jon, Kevin & Richard. Kevin & Richard did Winter's Tale together. Beth & Chris: Cherry Red. Chris & Kevin: I Love Robot -- also featuring Lara Rubin, before we ever met and became friends. David, KP, Jon & Lara were all National Players. The cross-currents of rehashing were insane. The next generation of DC actors will have six fingers.
Jon has the same triple-effusive energy. You respond to it, try to keep up with it, but somehow feel dirty afterwards. KP had the most interesting stories of the evening. I thought he came out here to act, but he's actually screenwriting. It was a glimpse into The Business. One of his screenplays was optioned for a year, but never got made. Apparently there is financial benefit from optioning, whether or not anything comes of it. He also works as a private math tutor, sometimes for Hollywood offspring. Without spoiling any of KP's future employment prospects, suffice it to say that he's one of those people that have a lot more under the surface than he lets on.
Meetings of DC theater folk are always surreal. But from the Bikram bubble to this, in LA. I'm not really sure which feels more like the real world. It's probably healthy for me to get out in the unhealthy outside world on a regular basis.
I have to give up this vain idea of cooking every weekend to prepare lunch for the week. Class, grocery store, laundry, nap, pedicure, a meal or two and the weekend's done.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
My favorite profanity
Songs stuck in my head today:
Beastie Boys -- Root Down
Mary Poppins -- A Spoonful of Sugar (spit spot!)
I was trying to get something, a bottle of shampoo maybe, out of the depths of my backpack, crammed in a locker. I hate running back and forth to my backpack and the locker for every third thing. The bottle, or whatever it was, was being difficult. As it is my custom to talk to inanimate objects, I mumbled, "Come out, motherfucker!"
I realized it was the first time I'd said "motherfucker" in over 2 weeks. Before I came here, it was part of my hourly vocabulary.
What is happening to me?
Beastie Boys -- Root Down
Mary Poppins -- A Spoonful of Sugar (spit spot!)
I was trying to get something, a bottle of shampoo maybe, out of the depths of my backpack, crammed in a locker. I hate running back and forth to my backpack and the locker for every third thing. The bottle, or whatever it was, was being difficult. As it is my custom to talk to inanimate objects, I mumbled, "Come out, motherfucker!"
I realized it was the first time I'd said "motherfucker" in over 2 weeks. Before I came here, it was part of my hourly vocabulary.
What is happening to me?
The five-year-old speaks once more
9:30 AM class: Rajashree
I know I drink between poses, when I don't really need to. I know it's an emotional crutch. I don't care. I'll nurse that frozen water bottle like a baby if I want to.
Nyaah.
I know I drink between poses, when I don't really need to. I know it's an emotional crutch. I don't care. I'll nurse that frozen water bottle like a baby if I want to.
Nyaah.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Never so weary, never so in woe
Every day it's harder to wake up.Today I gave up any pretense of paying attention in anatomy, and napped instead.
Put my head down, slouched in the backjack and slept.
We also got a glorious 15-30 minute break before posture clinic. Chasity, Nalini & I all slept on the beach mat.
Everyone sleeps every chance they get. If there are five spare minutes, they are spent on the floor. It's barely a choice.
I have never ever ever ever been so tired in my entire life.
Breakdown #1
9:30 AM class: Emmy
Today's mantra: It doesn't have to be perfect.
After last night's standing-bow-podium incident, my hamstring is so tight that I can barely get into any posture that requires bending forward. I used to lock out both knees, no problem, in most of these poses. Now it kills to try hands-to-feet, standing head-to-knee, triangle. It's worse than my very first class.
The hamstring, combined with how tight my hips are in the morning, and how difficult the standing series is anyway... okay, I'm just miserable. This is hard, it hurts, and I'm miserable. I want to cry, but there aren't any tears, just dry sobs, anxious hyperventilation. I'm next to Crying Yogi and when we lay down for the first savasana, she says, "Just let it go." I rarely give myself permission to cry, but she just did.
Suddenly I'm five years old again and crying. I don't know why it's always five years old. I don't remember anything particularly traumatic from when I was five -- as opposed to seven, or nine. But the five-year-old me is apparently more miserable than the current me, and I lie there and think, aren't you done yet? How much more of this is there? When we turn around for cobra, Crying Yogi touches my arm. She lays out a couple poses to deal with her own shit, and I touch her arm, though I get the feeling she wants to be left alone. Later that evening I thank her. She responds nonchalantly -- "Hey, it's just normal for me." I'm a little envious.
I have also reconsidered my savasana-shower policy. Fuck that. I can't move, let alone fight the crowds and noise in the changing room. Five minutes won't hurt.
Today's mantra: It doesn't have to be perfect.
After last night's standing-bow-podium incident, my hamstring is so tight that I can barely get into any posture that requires bending forward. I used to lock out both knees, no problem, in most of these poses. Now it kills to try hands-to-feet, standing head-to-knee, triangle. It's worse than my very first class.
The hamstring, combined with how tight my hips are in the morning, and how difficult the standing series is anyway... okay, I'm just miserable. This is hard, it hurts, and I'm miserable. I want to cry, but there aren't any tears, just dry sobs, anxious hyperventilation. I'm next to Crying Yogi and when we lay down for the first savasana, she says, "Just let it go." I rarely give myself permission to cry, but she just did.
Suddenly I'm five years old again and crying. I don't know why it's always five years old. I don't remember anything particularly traumatic from when I was five -- as opposed to seven, or nine. But the five-year-old me is apparently more miserable than the current me, and I lie there and think, aren't you done yet? How much more of this is there? When we turn around for cobra, Crying Yogi touches my arm. She lays out a couple poses to deal with her own shit, and I touch her arm, though I get the feeling she wants to be left alone. Later that evening I thank her. She responds nonchalantly -- "Hey, it's just normal for me." I'm a little envious.
I have also reconsidered my savasana-shower policy. Fuck that. I can't move, let alone fight the crowds and noise in the changing room. Five minutes won't hurt.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Conversations with Bikram, Part II
5:00 pm class: Bikram
I'm dragging, wondering how much longer I have to take class. And it's only week two.
Out of some death wish, I put my mat in the center of the room, close to Bikram's podium. I've been fearing pain all week, and it just gets in my way during class. It's time to bust through it. The teachers will not get any more merciful as the weeks progress. I want my pain now.
I bust my ass during class, so Bikram won't have any reason to pick on me. But during standing bow -- which I've had a love-hate relationship with from day one -- he points at me.
"Your feet aren't even in REMOTELY in one line! Get up here!"
The class stops as I get up on the podium and get into standing bow, in the eight-inch space in front of Bikram's chair. Bikram grabs my right arm (which stretches forward) and left leg (which kicks over my head). He looks at my left foot and announces to the class:
"She needs a pedicure." He pulls my arm forward and my leg up towards the ceiling.
"Stretch forward. Kick more. Stretch more. Stretch more!"
He keeps pulling. It feels like I'm going to rip in half. I have no balance of my own; if he lets go I will probably lurch off the podium. Then he yanks on my left leg. I hear a horrific double pop in my right hip and feel a huge rip in my right hamstring. While he holds me in this ungodly stretch:
"Who paid for the training? Whose money is it?"
Dear god, just let me go. Okay, my mother lent me the money, but he made fun of the last woman who fessed up to that: "Your mother wasted her money!" I'm not going to fall prey to that. "Me!"
"And who got the money?"
Holy shit. This is bad. "You!"
"And who ate the money?"
What if he really damaged my leg and doesn't know it? "You!"
"So who's the idiot here?"
Why did I sign that waiver releasing him from all responsibility of injury? "Me!"
He lets go and I stumble off the podium. My right leg is still freaking out and there's about an hour of class left. It still hurts to walk. Why did I fall asleep in Emmy's lecture on pain?
Thank god my roommate is a massage therapist. When we get home, I sit in an epsom salt bath, then Nalini works on my leg for about an hour.
Well, I wanted my pain now. That's what Bikram sells. And does he deliver.
I'm dragging, wondering how much longer I have to take class. And it's only week two.
Out of some death wish, I put my mat in the center of the room, close to Bikram's podium. I've been fearing pain all week, and it just gets in my way during class. It's time to bust through it. The teachers will not get any more merciful as the weeks progress. I want my pain now.
I bust my ass during class, so Bikram won't have any reason to pick on me. But during standing bow -- which I've had a love-hate relationship with from day one -- he points at me.
"Your feet aren't even in REMOTELY in one line! Get up here!"
The class stops as I get up on the podium and get into standing bow, in the eight-inch space in front of Bikram's chair. Bikram grabs my right arm (which stretches forward) and left leg (which kicks over my head). He looks at my left foot and announces to the class:
"She needs a pedicure." He pulls my arm forward and my leg up towards the ceiling.
"Stretch forward. Kick more. Stretch more. Stretch more!"
He keeps pulling. It feels like I'm going to rip in half. I have no balance of my own; if he lets go I will probably lurch off the podium. Then he yanks on my left leg. I hear a horrific double pop in my right hip and feel a huge rip in my right hamstring. While he holds me in this ungodly stretch:
"Who paid for the training? Whose money is it?"
Dear god, just let me go. Okay, my mother lent me the money, but he made fun of the last woman who fessed up to that: "Your mother wasted her money!" I'm not going to fall prey to that. "Me!"
"And who got the money?"
Holy shit. This is bad. "You!"
"And who ate the money?"
What if he really damaged my leg and doesn't know it? "You!"
"So who's the idiot here?"
Why did I sign that waiver releasing him from all responsibility of injury? "Me!"
He lets go and I stumble off the podium. My right leg is still freaking out and there's about an hour of class left. It still hurts to walk. Why did I fall asleep in Emmy's lecture on pain?
Thank god my roommate is a massage therapist. When we get home, I sit in an epsom salt bath, then Nalini works on my leg for about an hour.
Well, I wanted my pain now. That's what Bikram sells. And does he deliver.
The yoga truck
Craig warned us about the yoga truck. Sometimes it just hits you, leaving you dazed and wobbly. Other times it runs you over, leaving you twisted, broken, and squashed into the pavement. And sometimes after that, it backs up again and drives back and forth over your whimpering carcass a few times, for good measure.
I'm not there yet, but I've definitely been brushed in passing on a 4-lane highway. I have never been so tired in my life.
I keep falling asleep in anatomy class, which is unwisely scheduled at 12:15. Kathy, our substitute anatomy teacher, has an uphill climb, no matter how many jokes she tells or photos of her dogs she shows. I feel sorry for her. It's not personal. Right after morning class and lunch, we are expected to sit in a dark room and stay awake for slides of the skeletal system. Yeah.
It's even a struggle to stay awake during Emmy's lecture on pain, which is very relevant. Emmy is the principal of the school; she's in her 70s and can still stand on her knees in half lotus. She's one of the few people that lead the advanced Bikram class (84 postures, only open to certified teachers). She's also perhaps the only person that could kick Bikram out of class, which legend says she did once. For disrupting class too much.
I desperately want to hear this lecture, but keep waking up to find my notes trailing off the page.
I'm not there yet, but I've definitely been brushed in passing on a 4-lane highway. I have never been so tired in my life.
I keep falling asleep in anatomy class, which is unwisely scheduled at 12:15. Kathy, our substitute anatomy teacher, has an uphill climb, no matter how many jokes she tells or photos of her dogs she shows. I feel sorry for her. It's not personal. Right after morning class and lunch, we are expected to sit in a dark room and stay awake for slides of the skeletal system. Yeah.
It's even a struggle to stay awake during Emmy's lecture on pain, which is very relevant. Emmy is the principal of the school; she's in her 70s and can still stand on her knees in half lotus. She's one of the few people that lead the advanced Bikram class (84 postures, only open to certified teachers). She's also perhaps the only person that could kick Bikram out of class, which legend says she did once. For disrupting class too much.
I desperately want to hear this lecture, but keep waking up to find my notes trailing off the page.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
The 2-popsicle lunch
My body has become very particular about what it wants and doesn't want. Some people lose their appetite altogether at training. Many people spent the first week throwing up, so they aren't eating much. All I wanted last week was lemonade and cold pasta.
And these are not just cravings, especially with the lemonade. I start thinking about lemonade halfway through class. I must have it. It is the only thing to live for. Dear god, when will the angels descend from heaven with lemonade and save us all? Once I make it to lunch and get that lemonade, it is the. Best. Lemonade. Ever. Actually, it's the best thing I've ever drunk. I don't know how I lived without it, or why I would want anything else.
Except maybe popsicles. There is a very smart popsicle man who brings his cart to the parking lot at lunchtime. And we are ever so grateful. Because he sells the best. Popsicles. Ever.
I think they're Mexican -- they come in lemon-lime, strawberry, mango, coconut, tamarind, watermelon, hibiscus and pineapple. There are usually chunks of fruit in them. The lemon-lime ones are basically the crack form of lemonade. Today I started lunch with a lemon-lime popsicle. Then I decided I needed a pineapple one too, and whatever real food I had just seemed unnecessary.
I think food is overrated. I know they just want to keep us from passing out. But food made me feel sluggish. After the 2-popsicle lunch, I felt great. Perhaps one day you will find me strung out on these crack popsicles in the gutter, clutching a 40-oz. of lemonade. I cannot promise you I will want rehab.
P.S. It's my mother's birthday today. I called on the way to the studio and made the van sing happy birthday to her. Happy Birthday again, mom.
And these are not just cravings, especially with the lemonade. I start thinking about lemonade halfway through class. I must have it. It is the only thing to live for. Dear god, when will the angels descend from heaven with lemonade and save us all? Once I make it to lunch and get that lemonade, it is the. Best. Lemonade. Ever. Actually, it's the best thing I've ever drunk. I don't know how I lived without it, or why I would want anything else.
Except maybe popsicles. There is a very smart popsicle man who brings his cart to the parking lot at lunchtime. And we are ever so grateful. Because he sells the best. Popsicles. Ever.
I think they're Mexican -- they come in lemon-lime, strawberry, mango, coconut, tamarind, watermelon, hibiscus and pineapple. There are usually chunks of fruit in them. The lemon-lime ones are basically the crack form of lemonade. Today I started lunch with a lemon-lime popsicle. Then I decided I needed a pineapple one too, and whatever real food I had just seemed unnecessary.
I think food is overrated. I know they just want to keep us from passing out. But food made me feel sluggish. After the 2-popsicle lunch, I felt great. Perhaps one day you will find me strung out on these crack popsicles in the gutter, clutching a 40-oz. of lemonade. I cannot promise you I will want rehab.
P.S. It's my mother's birthday today. I called on the way to the studio and made the van sing happy birthday to her. Happy Birthday again, mom.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Week 2: Standards redefined
Gone are the days of the 20-minute final savasana, where I drift off after class until I'm completely relaxed and cooled down. Are you kidding me? Class typically runs over by at least 10 minutes. 11:15. Anatomy begins at 12:15. Approximately 1 hour to wait in the shower line, rinse out yoga clothes, change, hang the wet clothes up in the parking lot, eat lunch, and set up for anatomy. Between traffic jams and the slow motion imposed on my body by the yoga truck, this takes much longer than usual. So I bolt out of the room as soon as the teacher officially dismisses us, and lurch to the showers before the line reaches out the door. My head feels like a bowling ball, and sometimes I have to prop myself up on the wall in the shower line, or grab onto the clothing hooks. But I will have time for lunch and two seconds of rest before anatomy.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
We're not dead yet
After the 5pm class Friday night, Jason Winn announced that we had the night off. It was like winning the lottery. On the van ride home, Nalini & I decided sushi was necesary, and our van-mate Mike knew a place down the street from the apartments. We spent a couple of hours recovering a sense of humanity and finding out about each other's lives. Mike is very secretive about his personal life, other than he works for Apple. This week has been years long.
All I managed to do Saturday was laundry and nap. We went to Trader Joe's after class at 7:30 am (yes folks, 7:30 am on a Saturday), then came home. It was all we could do to put our food away and start a load of laundry. We all fell asleep for a good couple of hours. The couch in our living room is more comfortable than the beds. I've barely been able to check my messages this week, let alone return calls. And right now, that seems like an awful lot of effort.
The Oakwood apartments resemble a nice little hotel close to the beach. The paths between buildings are landscaped with flowers, benches, trees, and climbing vines on the balcony rails.
All I managed to do Saturday was laundry and nap. We went to Trader Joe's after class at 7:30 am (yes folks, 7:30 am on a Saturday), then came home. It was all we could do to put our food away and start a load of laundry. We all fell asleep for a good couple of hours. The couch in our living room is more comfortable than the beds. I've barely been able to check my messages this week, let alone return calls. And right now, that seems like an awful lot of effort.
The Oakwood apartments resemble a nice little hotel close to the beach. The paths between buildings are landscaped with flowers, benches, trees, and climbing vines on the balcony rails.
There's a heated pool & hot tub surrounded by deck chairs, palm trees and a couple of grills. After rousing from naps, which seemed to take another hour, we grilled some food and hung out in the pool -- along with the rest of the teacher trainees. We basically rule the complex right now.
Suddenly, it felt like a vacation. Heated pool, palm trees, perfect weather, nothing else to do. Perhaps the apartments are meant to be a compensation for how grueling the week is. We're isolated from the outside world -- during the week, we barely have time to think. And on the weekend, all we want to do is recover. Right now, there's something nice about being removed from the rest of your life. No routine to enslave you. No trappings of your former daily life, no phone calls to return, errands to run, or social obligations. The only decision to make is what we need from Trader Joe's. Life is stripped down to immediate, simple demands. Sleep, food, laundry.
Today Nalini, Chasity, Lilly, Mike & I walked the Venice boardwalk, which is a five-minute walk from the beach in Marina del Rey. It's just like the opening credits for Three's Company. There are houses and apartments all along the boardwalk. Some people actually live on the beach. With warm weather, all year round. It's damn appealing.
We passed Muscle Beach, which I didn't realize was a specific, tangible location. I always thought it was fictional, or metaphorical. Perhaps in former days, Muscle Beach was sandy strip of sun-kissed beach boys, perfecting Adonis physiques between waves and clambakes with girls in gingham bikinis. In present-day real life, it's more of a steroid freak farm that resembles a prison yard on the sand.
We saw a street performer balance a young girl, seated in a metal folding chair, IN HIS TEETH. His stage presence was more Three Card Monty than magician. He had this aggressive way of pressing the crowd for donations to the hat that made you wonder if a passerby would get clocked for trying to steal a free show. But none of us feared for the girl in the chair. Somehow, you knew he was okay with the kids.
Vacation brain set in when it came to the boarkdwalk vendors. We bought necklaces, clothing, bikinis. I, sadly, still have not found a cute hot tub bikini. But it was great to get Nalini, who formerly had a very simple one-piece, into a hot mama black bikini. There's a hot mama inside of Nalini just dying to get out. She's just not comfortable with it yet.
When I stay in one place for a long time, I forget how easy it is to change your world in a minute. It's changed completely at least three or four times in the last week. You just pick up and go. You adapt. It takes nothing, just simple, immediate demands. The decision to do it. Anything is possible. I want the world to keep changing, instead of returning to the regular schedule of the college. I want a new city, a new country, new things to see, new people, new lives.
Or maybe I just want another day of vacation.
Friday, April 15, 2005
A Day in the Life
Today's mantra: Don't think.
Our (roughly) daily schedule:
6:45 am -- alarm
7:15 am -- get up, put lunch together, throw on clothes
8:20 am -- van leaves for studio
9:00 am -- arrive at studio, sign in
9:20 am -- Zach reminds us to sign in
9:25 am -- Zach comes in with a list of those who still haven't signed in. People jump up from their mats and race to the lobby.
9:30 am -- yoga class
11:15 am -- lunch break. Time is approximate. Class often runs over. Wait in line for shower.
12:00 pm -- actually eat lunch and sneak a nap
12:15 pm -- anatomy class, lecture or posture clinic
2:30 pm -- posture clinic
4:30 pm -- break for class. Scramble to lay down mat. Wait in more lines with 150 women to change clothes, fill water bottle and pee.
5:00 pm -- yoga class
6:30 pm -- dinner break. Again, class often runs over.
7:30 pm -- sign in again
7:45 pm -- see 9:20 am
7:55 pm -- see 9:25 am
8:00 pm -- posture clinic or lecture, whatever they feel like. Sometimes we don't have to be back until 8:30 pm.
11:00 pm -- leave, unless posture clinic runs late or Bikram keeps talking.
11:30 pm -- get home, unpack bags, eat, stare into space
12:30 am -- or later, go to bed.
Our (roughly) daily schedule:
6:45 am -- alarm
7:15 am -- get up, put lunch together, throw on clothes
8:20 am -- van leaves for studio
9:00 am -- arrive at studio, sign in
9:20 am -- Zach reminds us to sign in
9:25 am -- Zach comes in with a list of those who still haven't signed in. People jump up from their mats and race to the lobby.
9:30 am -- yoga class
11:15 am -- lunch break. Time is approximate. Class often runs over. Wait in line for shower.
12:00 pm -- actually eat lunch and sneak a nap
12:15 pm -- anatomy class, lecture or posture clinic
2:30 pm -- posture clinic
4:30 pm -- break for class. Scramble to lay down mat. Wait in more lines with 150 women to change clothes, fill water bottle and pee.
5:00 pm -- yoga class
6:30 pm -- dinner break. Again, class often runs over.
7:30 pm -- sign in again
7:45 pm -- see 9:20 am
7:55 pm -- see 9:25 am
8:00 pm -- posture clinic or lecture, whatever they feel like. Sometimes we don't have to be back until 8:30 pm.
11:00 pm -- leave, unless posture clinic runs late or Bikram keeps talking.
11:30 pm -- get home, unpack bags, eat, stare into space
12:30 am -- or later, go to bed.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Bikram sings!
5:00 PM class: Bikram
It actually starts around 6:00 pm, because Bikram's being interviewed by the Fit Channel, some subsidiary of Discovery. The woman who hosts the show and interviewed Bikram takes class with us, so there are cameramen with us in class. We like that, because it guarantees a somewhat easy class until she leaves. Bikram won't kill us too much in front of the cameras. Instead he focuses on her, helping her through some of the poses.
The easiest classes here still wipe me out. During final savasana, Bikram always plays tracks from his CDs. Yes, Bikram sings! The traditional Indian songs and chants are actually really good; very peaceful. Tonight we're listening to his love songs, which have a significant cheddar quotient:
"I'm feeling lonely... come soon.
I'm feeling lonely...
Baby come soon."
Eventually the whole class cracks up. I'm lying next to Zach. We look at each other and giggle. I liked Zach from the moment I saw him in a Paul Frank shirt. (Paul Frank is your friend!) He would make the perfect gay boyfriend. I have an impulse to get up and dance with him, but I'm not sure that Bikram would take that well.
The second track has an even cheesier chorus of girls on it. After class, "I'm feeling lonely" is still stuck in my head. I am buying this CD, for damn sure. I will bring it home and play it for you all. That way, there is at least one glimpse of the misery that you all can share.
It actually starts around 6:00 pm, because Bikram's being interviewed by the Fit Channel, some subsidiary of Discovery. The woman who hosts the show and interviewed Bikram takes class with us, so there are cameramen with us in class. We like that, because it guarantees a somewhat easy class until she leaves. Bikram won't kill us too much in front of the cameras. Instead he focuses on her, helping her through some of the poses.
The easiest classes here still wipe me out. During final savasana, Bikram always plays tracks from his CDs. Yes, Bikram sings! The traditional Indian songs and chants are actually really good; very peaceful. Tonight we're listening to his love songs, which have a significant cheddar quotient:
"I'm feeling lonely... come soon.
I'm feeling lonely...
Baby come soon."
Eventually the whole class cracks up. I'm lying next to Zach. We look at each other and giggle. I liked Zach from the moment I saw him in a Paul Frank shirt. (Paul Frank is your friend!) He would make the perfect gay boyfriend. I have an impulse to get up and dance with him, but I'm not sure that Bikram would take that well.
The second track has an even cheesier chorus of girls on it. After class, "I'm feeling lonely" is still stuck in my head. I am buying this CD, for damn sure. I will bring it home and play it for you all. That way, there is at least one glimpse of the misery that you all can share.
Somewhat like opera
Craig made fun of us today, saying that we clap when someone finds a notebook or loses a camera. He's not far off. Regular causes for applause so far:
the end of yoga class
Bikram enters the room
someone gets up to do posture dialogue
someone finishes their dialogue
Bikram comments on their dialogue
someone makes an announcement
I mean, most of us aren't from LA, so what's the deal?
the end of yoga class
Bikram enters the room
someone gets up to do posture dialogue
someone finishes their dialogue
Bikram comments on their dialogue
someone makes an announcement
I mean, most of us aren't from LA, so what's the deal?
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Quit Your Day Job
Today's mantra: Relax your mind.
Posture Clinic. It sounds very medical, images of people in white coats prodding you as you stand half naked in a cold room. And the emotional experience is somewhat the same.
For our purposes, posture clinic is something like an endless audition or workshop. There is set instructional text for every pose in the Bikram series, the infamous "dialogue." We are supposed to memorize it verbatim. My teacher training agreement included a clause that I would not vary the dialogue in any manner whatsoever. In posture clinic, every student gets up, one by one, and teaches the pose, using the dialogue, while other students demonstrate the pose.
Normally, this will be done before a group of other students, and a couple teachers who grade you on accuracy, delivery, etc. For the first pose, however, the whole class (approximately 200) is together, and delivers the dialogue for Bikram.
You always know when Bikram's going to enter the room, because someone prepares his seat beforehand. Everything we do happens in the same room, usually -- yoga class, posture clinic, lectures. We sit on the floor in these little purple numbers called backjacks -- somewhat like camping chairs that sit on the ground, but smaller and far less comfortable. In the front center of the room is the podium, nearly four feet high, where teachers stand during class. Most of the podium is occupied by a huge white leather chair, which only Bikram can sit in, supposedly. If he lectures, the seat will be covered by a special terrycloth cover featuring the school logo, and a pink and orange towel that says, "Hot Stuff." Tonight, he sits front and center of the students in a low beach chair, covered with towels. An assistant sometimes sits by him in class to brush his hair or bring beverages as needed. (I will specify that I have yet to see Craig brush his hair. I doubt I ever will.)
No amount of theater training or experience has ever accustomed me to the sound of my own voice in a microphone. Even though I know the dialogue cold, I'm fully prepared to lose it and blank when I get up there. Some of the students have never even stood up before this many people before, and it's harrowing for them. They can barely speak into the microphone, or the experience brings them to tears. This pose isn't graded. Bikram's just there to get a sense of personalities, give general feedback on delivery:
"You're going to KILL them! Very good. Next."
"It's very sweet. You need more iron. More tiger. Like her."
"You have a good voice. Just needs to be faster."
"What you eat for breakfast? Nails and bullets? Good."
The French man delivering dialogue right now has such a lovely voice. Reminds me of my friend Fabrice. Makes me want to marry him. I'm a big fan of Team France. They're all strong, beautiful and entertaining. They sit together, share jamba juice and pat each other on the back during posture clinic.
I've been thinking too much this whole week. Bikram says that our mind is our worst enemy. it's very true. I get in my own way constantly. It makes my classes so much harder than they need to be. My mantra this week has been relax your mind, relax your mind, relax your mind. That comes at the end of a relaxation exercise some teachers give at the end of class. I don't know if it's working.
When I got up, I tested the mike, to get used to my own voice. "Hellooo."
Bikram: "Say that again."
"Helloooo."
"One more time."
"Helloooo."
Bikram looks around. "Wow, that's sexy, no?" Laughter. Someone in the crowd shouts, "Say it again." I do. I'll take any good start.
I spit out the dialogue in a blur, focusing on one student, but seeing nothing. Halfway through, my hand starts shaking, then my right leg and the right half of my ass. I'm convinced everyone can see. When I'm done, there is, thank god, no painful pause before people clap. (We clap for everything, by the way. Have I mentioned that?) I don't know what to expect. I'm hoping for neutral-to-good. I just don't want him to kill me. Not that he's killed anyone yet. But he still scares the shit out of me.
Bikram: "Where you from?"
"DC."
"The fourth floor?" (Bikram Yoga Dupont is a 4th floor walkup).
"Yeah -- now it's the 2nd and 4th floors."
"How long you practice?"
"Two and a half years."
"Why it take you so long to get here?"
"Well, I always said I had a day job, but then I got laid off..."
"You don't need that shitty job. You know why?"
"Why."
"Because I give you job here in LA!"
"Uh... thank you."
"Seriously, you keep in touch with me after training."
"Okay. Thank you."
"Anywhere in the world you want to teach, you let me know."
My first thought is "London," but I can only muster another "thank you." Damn. I didn't even have to spit nails or brush his hair for it.
Posture Clinic. It sounds very medical, images of people in white coats prodding you as you stand half naked in a cold room. And the emotional experience is somewhat the same.
For our purposes, posture clinic is something like an endless audition or workshop. There is set instructional text for every pose in the Bikram series, the infamous "dialogue." We are supposed to memorize it verbatim. My teacher training agreement included a clause that I would not vary the dialogue in any manner whatsoever. In posture clinic, every student gets up, one by one, and teaches the pose, using the dialogue, while other students demonstrate the pose.
Normally, this will be done before a group of other students, and a couple teachers who grade you on accuracy, delivery, etc. For the first pose, however, the whole class (approximately 200) is together, and delivers the dialogue for Bikram.
You always know when Bikram's going to enter the room, because someone prepares his seat beforehand. Everything we do happens in the same room, usually -- yoga class, posture clinic, lectures. We sit on the floor in these little purple numbers called backjacks -- somewhat like camping chairs that sit on the ground, but smaller and far less comfortable. In the front center of the room is the podium, nearly four feet high, where teachers stand during class. Most of the podium is occupied by a huge white leather chair, which only Bikram can sit in, supposedly. If he lectures, the seat will be covered by a special terrycloth cover featuring the school logo, and a pink and orange towel that says, "Hot Stuff." Tonight, he sits front and center of the students in a low beach chair, covered with towels. An assistant sometimes sits by him in class to brush his hair or bring beverages as needed. (I will specify that I have yet to see Craig brush his hair. I doubt I ever will.)
No amount of theater training or experience has ever accustomed me to the sound of my own voice in a microphone. Even though I know the dialogue cold, I'm fully prepared to lose it and blank when I get up there. Some of the students have never even stood up before this many people before, and it's harrowing for them. They can barely speak into the microphone, or the experience brings them to tears. This pose isn't graded. Bikram's just there to get a sense of personalities, give general feedback on delivery:
"You're going to KILL them! Very good. Next."
"It's very sweet. You need more iron. More tiger. Like her."
"You have a good voice. Just needs to be faster."
"What you eat for breakfast? Nails and bullets? Good."
The French man delivering dialogue right now has such a lovely voice. Reminds me of my friend Fabrice. Makes me want to marry him. I'm a big fan of Team France. They're all strong, beautiful and entertaining. They sit together, share jamba juice and pat each other on the back during posture clinic.
I've been thinking too much this whole week. Bikram says that our mind is our worst enemy. it's very true. I get in my own way constantly. It makes my classes so much harder than they need to be. My mantra this week has been relax your mind, relax your mind, relax your mind. That comes at the end of a relaxation exercise some teachers give at the end of class. I don't know if it's working.
When I got up, I tested the mike, to get used to my own voice. "Hellooo."
Bikram: "Say that again."
"Helloooo."
"One more time."
"Helloooo."
Bikram looks around. "Wow, that's sexy, no?" Laughter. Someone in the crowd shouts, "Say it again." I do. I'll take any good start.
I spit out the dialogue in a blur, focusing on one student, but seeing nothing. Halfway through, my hand starts shaking, then my right leg and the right half of my ass. I'm convinced everyone can see. When I'm done, there is, thank god, no painful pause before people clap. (We clap for everything, by the way. Have I mentioned that?) I don't know what to expect. I'm hoping for neutral-to-good. I just don't want him to kill me. Not that he's killed anyone yet. But he still scares the shit out of me.
Bikram: "Where you from?"
"DC."
"The fourth floor?" (Bikram Yoga Dupont is a 4th floor walkup).
"Yeah -- now it's the 2nd and 4th floors."
"How long you practice?"
"Two and a half years."
"Why it take you so long to get here?"
"Well, I always said I had a day job, but then I got laid off..."
"You don't need that shitty job. You know why?"
"Why."
"Because I give you job here in LA!"
"Uh... thank you."
"Seriously, you keep in touch with me after training."
"Okay. Thank you."
"Anywhere in the world you want to teach, you let me know."
My first thought is "London," but I can only muster another "thank you." Damn. I didn't even have to spit nails or brush his hair for it.
Myths and Fantasies Debunked I
150 women in a steamy locker room is not the porn fest you might think. It's crowded, loud, confusing and messy. You're always bumping asses with someone. You have to climb over people just to find the damn comb buried at the bottom of your backpack jammed into a locker. You have to fight for a space with enough air circulation to get dressed without your clothes sticking. The floor is slicked in dirty shower water.
In general, the traffic flow in the hallways and changing rooms resembles a herd of confused goats. Goats with lunch bags, flip flops and accessories. A little random and frantic without full understanding of why. We're not sure who started the stampede, or where it's going, but everyone else is doing it.
It's amazing how rapidly one's standards can decline.
In general, the traffic flow in the hallways and changing rooms resembles a herd of confused goats. Goats with lunch bags, flip flops and accessories. A little random and frantic without full understanding of why. We're not sure who started the stampede, or where it's going, but everyone else is doing it.
It's amazing how rapidly one's standards can decline.
We wash our feet in the bathroom sinks. And still, dirt is permanently ingrained in the soles of my feet. Crazy hippie chick was brushing her teeth in the yoga room before anatomy class yesterday. We hang up our mats and yoga clothes in the parking lot to dry, and sit on 
the asphalt to eat lunch.
I regularly find other people's hair on my clothes, on my mat, in my mouth. You shake it off and keep going. After a while, it just doesn't matter.
Are you hot yet?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
A Limited Time for Every Purpose
Song stuck in my head today: Beastie Boys -- High Plains Drifter
In the lobby during dinner break:
The Crying Yogi (as Bikram has dubbed Julie), stood next to the Smart Water fridge and howled in tears, as everyone went about their business. She wasn't trying to hide it, but she wanted to be left alone. She just needed a place to cry. I can only assume she cried in class as well.
She did tell us. She wasn't just whistling Dixie, sister.
Some of you may know Naked Tony. The first time I met him, it was in a bar and he was clothed. Casual conversation led to mention of his occasional nudism: "Sometimes, you know, you just need naked time." Okay. Some people are vegetarians. Some people run at 5:00 am every day. Tony gets naked once in a while.
A month or so later at a party, half the room suddenly flocked to the windows to witness a to-do on 15th street. I expected cops, a fight, a car wreck.
Then someone said, "Some guy's naked on the street!" Again, I expected a crazy homeless man, foretelling Armageddon. But it was just Naked Tony.
Now, had I not known about Naked Tony and his Naked Time, it might have seemed bizarre and scandalous. But because he told me, I saw him and thought, oh, well, that's Tony. He does that.
With just a bit of warning, behavior commonly regarded as abnormal can be rendered into plain old Naked Tony and Crying Yogi. Some days, you know, you just need to tear down everything in your room and start from scratch. Uncle John, well, he laughs at funerals. Always has.
Andy Warhol once recommended telling people all of your faults as soon as you meet them, so they won't suffer any unpleasant surprises. Perhaps the secret is introducing them not as faults, but as perfectly normal, limited-time behavior that others may just not find familiar. "Limited Time" also implies that this is a special offer, that if they witness or even share your behavior, they're getting a deal. Naked time. Crying time. A moment of silence. The long dark teatime of the soul. A last chance clearance sale on personal demons.
Act now, because EVERYTHING MUST GO.
In the lobby during dinner break:
The Crying Yogi (as Bikram has dubbed Julie), stood next to the Smart Water fridge and howled in tears, as everyone went about their business. She wasn't trying to hide it, but she wanted to be left alone. She just needed a place to cry. I can only assume she cried in class as well.
She did tell us. She wasn't just whistling Dixie, sister.
Some of you may know Naked Tony. The first time I met him, it was in a bar and he was clothed. Casual conversation led to mention of his occasional nudism: "Sometimes, you know, you just need naked time." Okay. Some people are vegetarians. Some people run at 5:00 am every day. Tony gets naked once in a while.
A month or so later at a party, half the room suddenly flocked to the windows to witness a to-do on 15th street. I expected cops, a fight, a car wreck.
Then someone said, "Some guy's naked on the street!" Again, I expected a crazy homeless man, foretelling Armageddon. But it was just Naked Tony.
Now, had I not known about Naked Tony and his Naked Time, it might have seemed bizarre and scandalous. But because he told me, I saw him and thought, oh, well, that's Tony. He does that.
With just a bit of warning, behavior commonly regarded as abnormal can be rendered into plain old Naked Tony and Crying Yogi. Some days, you know, you just need to tear down everything in your room and start from scratch. Uncle John, well, he laughs at funerals. Always has.
Andy Warhol once recommended telling people all of your faults as soon as you meet them, so they won't suffer any unpleasant surprises. Perhaps the secret is introducing them not as faults, but as perfectly normal, limited-time behavior that others may just not find familiar. "Limited Time" also implies that this is a special offer, that if they witness or even share your behavior, they're getting a deal. Naked time. Crying time. A moment of silence. The long dark teatime of the soul. A last chance clearance sale on personal demons.
Act now, because EVERYTHING MUST GO.
ASS ON FIRE
No, it's not class. It's the Bikram Fashion Report!
Afternoon posture clinic:
shiny silver shorts and t-shirt (black sleeves).
Dinner break, in the lobby outside his office:
white shorts with FLAMES up the sides. ASS ON FIRE. By evening posture clinic, he's added a white shirt.
Afternoon posture clinic:
shiny silver shorts and t-shirt (black sleeves).
Dinner break, in the lobby outside his office:
white shorts with FLAMES up the sides. ASS ON FIRE. By evening posture clinic, he's added a white shirt.
Burn, Baby, Burn
9:30 am class: Jim Kallet, owner of a studio in San Diego.
Jim is probably in his 40s, has a long gray ponytail (with receding hairline) and a huge tattoo covering his entire back. I'll try to find some visual approximation, but it resembles an abstract fountain. It often appears as a graphic for apartment buildings. I do not believe Jim is an apartment building, so it must have some sort of significance in the karmic world as well.
I would love Jim's class -- he explains every pose, its purpose, the health benefits -- had I not put my mat in the path of the heating vent. I should have known when I saw a huge empty space around it on the floor. But I was feeling all studly and bad-ass. Yeah, it's hot, but I've had lots of really hot classes. I can take it. And it probably won't blow like that the whole time.
WRONG, WRONG, WRONG on all counts.
After trying to bust out the first 3 poses, I sit out at least one set of everything. By half-tortoise (approximately 70 minutes into class, 6 poses from the end), I'm toast. Out flat. I have never laid out that much of a class in my life. I can feel my feet burning off my body. The water in my bottle is hot. (Nalini, who has her mat nearby, said later she could have dropped a tea bag in her bottle and had it brewed by lunch.) I think I'm going to die. Not really, but you know.
I keep thinking, don't leave the room, don't leave the room. I have never left the room, in two and half years of practice. When you first start practicing, all you want to do is leave the room. Crawl out of your own skin. Anything but stay in the heat, which is surely boiling your brain in a nice au jus (it isn't, really). I have never done it, and I am NOT about to be beaten down by my own cavalier stupidity and a moment of ego.
Meanwhile, I watch people leave the room to throw up. I'm jealous. They are heading to cool hallways and a bathroom with cold water. Maybe I can just crawl to the back of the room... Someone's crying and I figure it must be Julie. It just fuels the desire to bolt. By separate leg stretching (2nd to last pose), I mentally declare that I am a punk and I just need to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. I try to get up on all fours, and fail miserably. I flop back on my mat and turn into a cranky 5-year-old. I want to cry, but no tears or sound will come out, so I pathetically shake my hands, put my arms over my face and generally flail like some sort of diseased seal.
When class is over, I drag myself to the changing room and suck on a water bottle while the room turns blue and spins. My head feels like a bowling ball. After about 10 minutes, I make it to the showers. At lunch, all I want is fruit. I'm jealous of all the salads I see around me. Lara told me that when she was at training, all she wanted was cold food and lemonade. I now understand. I have completely miscalculated my grocery shopping.
Jim is probably in his 40s, has a long gray ponytail (with receding hairline) and a huge tattoo covering his entire back. I'll try to find some visual approximation, but it resembles an abstract fountain. It often appears as a graphic for apartment buildings. I do not believe Jim is an apartment building, so it must have some sort of significance in the karmic world as well.
I would love Jim's class -- he explains every pose, its purpose, the health benefits -- had I not put my mat in the path of the heating vent. I should have known when I saw a huge empty space around it on the floor. But I was feeling all studly and bad-ass. Yeah, it's hot, but I've had lots of really hot classes. I can take it. And it probably won't blow like that the whole time.
WRONG, WRONG, WRONG on all counts.
After trying to bust out the first 3 poses, I sit out at least one set of everything. By half-tortoise (approximately 70 minutes into class, 6 poses from the end), I'm toast. Out flat. I have never laid out that much of a class in my life. I can feel my feet burning off my body. The water in my bottle is hot. (Nalini, who has her mat nearby, said later she could have dropped a tea bag in her bottle and had it brewed by lunch.) I think I'm going to die. Not really, but you know.
I keep thinking, don't leave the room, don't leave the room. I have never left the room, in two and half years of practice. When you first start practicing, all you want to do is leave the room. Crawl out of your own skin. Anything but stay in the heat, which is surely boiling your brain in a nice au jus (it isn't, really). I have never done it, and I am NOT about to be beaten down by my own cavalier stupidity and a moment of ego.
Meanwhile, I watch people leave the room to throw up. I'm jealous. They are heading to cool hallways and a bathroom with cold water. Maybe I can just crawl to the back of the room... Someone's crying and I figure it must be Julie. It just fuels the desire to bolt. By separate leg stretching (2nd to last pose), I mentally declare that I am a punk and I just need to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. I try to get up on all fours, and fail miserably. I flop back on my mat and turn into a cranky 5-year-old. I want to cry, but no tears or sound will come out, so I pathetically shake my hands, put my arms over my face and generally flail like some sort of diseased seal.
When class is over, I drag myself to the changing room and suck on a water bottle while the room turns blue and spins. My head feels like a bowling ball. After about 10 minutes, I make it to the showers. At lunch, all I want is fruit. I'm jealous of all the salads I see around me. Lara told me that when she was at training, all she wanted was cold food and lemonade. I now understand. I have completely miscalculated my grocery shopping.
Monday, April 11, 2005
These are the people in my neighborhood
Song stuck in my head today: Kelis -- Milkshake
(To Shelby, who permanently associated this song with the women's changing room for me -- curse you. May "I Saw the Signs" by Ace of Base get stuck in your head every time you open the fridge.)
Once the staff figures we've had enough reassurance and health warnings to meet Bikram, it's time for introductions. I've seen him at a seminar before, so I have an idea of what to expect.
Many people consider yoga a soothing, zen experience. Bikram is not about that. He says up front: "I sell pain. This is Bikram's torture chamber. You kill yourself for 90 minutes in my class, you live for 90 years!" He favors shiny clothing and expensive cars. He talks straight and is unafraid of profanity. He is also unafraid of what people think of him. "Why should I be humble? Fuck you! Excuse me for living!"
After a welcome speech that is now a blur, we get up and introduce ourselves to the group & Bikram: who we are, where we're from, why we're here. Several people started the yoga to heal injuries or hip/knee/back conditions that were supposed to require surgery. Others took to it to overcome addictions.
Denver, who wears in engineer-striped overall shorts and brought a guitar, announces (only half-flippantly) that he's wife-shopping. A crew-cut woman tells us her hair used to be waist-length, but she shaved her head when she knew she was coming to training. She also says she's working through a lot of emotional stuff and cries in class a lot. Thank god. I'd heard that sooner or later, everyone cries during training. But who wants to be the first? Cheers to her for stepping up and breaking the ice.
At least six people have come from a studio in Paris. Teresa has hip and knee problems from years of dance. She's originally from Prague and drips a pan-European sophisticated sexuality. Fred holds the microphone like a cigarette, between his middle and ring fingers. He says that unlike Craig, being trapped in a changing room with 150 women is not his idea of hell. On the contrary, he would consider it heaven, so he would like to especially say hello to all of the ladies.
There's also a healthy Australian contingent. Susan and Michael are a couple in their 50s, Americans who have lived in Australia for the past 20-30 years. They all have incredible amounts of energy. Maybe it's just the accent.
Andrew, a Welshman from Bangkok, is a little difficult to understand, both in diction and coherence. We're not always sure he gets everything we're saying, either. He was in an (unspecified) accident years ago and suffered extensive brain damage. Doctors once thought he'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, so the fact that he's walking, albeit with a limp, is admirable. Still, we're not sure the rest of him made it back.
(To Shelby, who permanently associated this song with the women's changing room for me -- curse you. May "I Saw the Signs" by Ace of Base get stuck in your head every time you open the fridge.)
Once the staff figures we've had enough reassurance and health warnings to meet Bikram, it's time for introductions. I've seen him at a seminar before, so I have an idea of what to expect.
Many people consider yoga a soothing, zen experience. Bikram is not about that. He says up front: "I sell pain. This is Bikram's torture chamber. You kill yourself for 90 minutes in my class, you live for 90 years!" He favors shiny clothing and expensive cars. He talks straight and is unafraid of profanity. He is also unafraid of what people think of him. "Why should I be humble? Fuck you! Excuse me for living!"
After a welcome speech that is now a blur, we get up and introduce ourselves to the group & Bikram: who we are, where we're from, why we're here. Several people started the yoga to heal injuries or hip/knee/back conditions that were supposed to require surgery. Others took to it to overcome addictions.
Denver, who wears in engineer-striped overall shorts and brought a guitar, announces (only half-flippantly) that he's wife-shopping. A crew-cut woman tells us her hair used to be waist-length, but she shaved her head when she knew she was coming to training. She also says she's working through a lot of emotional stuff and cries in class a lot. Thank god. I'd heard that sooner or later, everyone cries during training. But who wants to be the first? Cheers to her for stepping up and breaking the ice.
At least six people have come from a studio in Paris. Teresa has hip and knee problems from years of dance. She's originally from Prague and drips a pan-European sophisticated sexuality. Fred holds the microphone like a cigarette, between his middle and ring fingers. He says that unlike Craig, being trapped in a changing room with 150 women is not his idea of hell. On the contrary, he would consider it heaven, so he would like to especially say hello to all of the ladies.
There's also a healthy Australian contingent. Susan and Michael are a couple in their 50s, Americans who have lived in Australia for the past 20-30 years. They all have incredible amounts of energy. Maybe it's just the accent.
Andrew, a Welshman from Bangkok, is a little difficult to understand, both in diction and coherence. We're not always sure he gets everything we're saying, either. He was in an (unspecified) accident years ago and suffered extensive brain damage. Doctors once thought he'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, so the fact that he's walking, albeit with a limp, is admirable. Still, we're not sure the rest of him made it back.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Craig Villani
Craig Villani is the director of teacher training. Every teacher I talked to before leaving shook her head and said, "Oh, Craig. You'll love him or you'll hate him. Actually, you'll love him. Everyone develops a little crush on Craig."
Somehow, from the vague descriptions, I pieced together an image that resembles Harvey Fierstein. Instead, he's a thirty-something regular guy with appropriate use of hair products. He's entertaining and sympathetic, but you know right away that he can pinpoint bullshit at fifty paces, and won't take it. He will be our den mother for the next nine weeks. He cautions us that certain questions will be met with "La la la la la" as he stops up his ears. Catfights or territorial disputes within the women's changing room will not be touched with a ten-foot pole, as being trapped in a changing room with 150 women is his idea of hell. After 13 or 14 training sessions, he is well acquainted with teacher trainee behavior.
We also meet Rajashree, Bikram's wife. She introduces herself by saying, "Bikram is the Bengal tiger, and I am the pigeon." She's completing a Ph.D. in yoga therapy and is the health/nutrition guru here. She will be everyone's mother mother for the next nine weeks. If you have a problem, physical, emotional, you talk to Rajashree.
Our orientation talks repeatedly emphasize the dangers of dehydration, over-hydration (where you drink so much water that your electrolyte balance gets thrown off, which could be deadly) and proper nutrition. Other orientation prescriptions:
Somehow, from the vague descriptions, I pieced together an image that resembles Harvey Fierstein. Instead, he's a thirty-something regular guy with appropriate use of hair products. He's entertaining and sympathetic, but you know right away that he can pinpoint bullshit at fifty paces, and won't take it. He will be our den mother for the next nine weeks. He cautions us that certain questions will be met with "La la la la la" as he stops up his ears. Catfights or territorial disputes within the women's changing room will not be touched with a ten-foot pole, as being trapped in a changing room with 150 women is his idea of hell. After 13 or 14 training sessions, he is well acquainted with teacher trainee behavior.
We also meet Rajashree, Bikram's wife. She introduces herself by saying, "Bikram is the Bengal tiger, and I am the pigeon." She's completing a Ph.D. in yoga therapy and is the health/nutrition guru here. She will be everyone's mother mother for the next nine weeks. If you have a problem, physical, emotional, you talk to Rajashree.
Our orientation talks repeatedly emphasize the dangers of dehydration, over-hydration (where you drink so much water that your electrolyte balance gets thrown off, which could be deadly) and proper nutrition. Other orientation prescriptions:
- Eat whatever your body tells you, don't listen to old eating habits. If you're a vegetarian and you crave meat, eat it. Craig tells a story of how he was vegan when he started teacher training. Then, one day after class, he went straight to Whole Foods, bought a big hunk of beef, took it home, threw it on the grill and then picked it up with his bare hands and tore into it there on the deck. Rajashree says, Don't diet. Don't watch your weight. Just eat. Eat well and eat often.
- Take it easy, take it easy. Don't push yourself during class. And TELL US if you experience any of the following: dizziness, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, nausea, muscle cramps, light-headedness, repeated headaches, transmissions from alien craft, purple and red spots, extra limbs, talking boils, anything out of the ordinary. Err on the side of caution this first week. Please. We don't want any ambulances.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Day One, Ground Zero
Orientation never is.
It's more of a sorting bin.
I arrive in the parking lot of Bikram World Headquarters, which is an unassuming building in a nondescript neighborhood.
From the outside, if the signs didn't say "Bikram Yoga" in large blue letters, you might mistake the building for a car dealership or abandoned warehouse. Everything is smaller and more run down than you'd expect.
People are sitting around in the parking lot, but there are no signs, no people with clipboards, no indication of what to do and where to go. I wander up to a girl and say, "What do we do?" She says, "I think we all put our suitcases on that truck."
I trust blindly that the U-haul really is part of the program, and not someone making a killing off a parking lot full of clueless yoga students. Beyond the suitcase procedure, no one seems to know anything. I return to the girl and we chat.
Jalena is originally from Bosnia, but has lived for quite a while in British Columbia. Her accent is much more Canadian than anything else. She's very chill, the type you'd want to take camping, or to Burning Man. We stick together as they herd us into the main yoga room, a large mirrored room with peach walls, lots of old photos of Bikram and his wife, Rajashree, demonstrating lots of poses against K-mart family photo backdrops, and a rough cream-colored carpet with thin blue lines running the length of the room. This is where we will spend the next nine weeks. We wait in several lines for books, room assignments, photos, blah blah, nothing very organized. After a few talks that no one can really process, we're divided up into van groups, and find our roommates. Jalena is about 3 rooms away.
My roommates are Nalini & Chastity. They're both from the same studio in Las Vegas, though they didn't know each other well before now. Chastity, 28, was born and raised in a trailer park under the name Chastity Christian. Logically, she went on to work for several years as a dancer in several clubs in Las Vegas. She has three kids -- Anthony, 11, Serena, 8, and Sadie Jo, 2. Chastity had a hip injury (related to childbirth, not the club) that plagued her for years until she started doing Bikram. She's been practicing for at least 2 years.
Nalini, 35, grew up on several ashrams in Massachusetts, upstate New York, and India. She arrived in India with her family when she was 16, and ended up staying for five years after her family left. She was actually born Penelope; Nalini is the name her meditation guru gave her. I have no idea what it means. She has a 10-year-old daughter. Before we leave the studio, I meet her daughter and a man whom Nalini introduces as "Varsha's father" -- no idea whether they're divorced, distant, or what. They seem to be very friendly.
Living with two moms makes me feel incredibly clueless and unprepared. Nalini drove here with a car full of stuff. (Can I say, I scored by getting a roommate with a car. This equals a certain degree of freedom on the weekends.) Chasity flew, but still brought about twice as much as I did. Between the two of them, the kitchen is already half full. But we still need something for the week beyond cereal, juice, crackers and vitamins, so we make a late night grocery run and have no idea what to buy. It's actually only 9 or 10 pm when we get back, but it feels like a week in itself. We come back with absolutely stupid things, like a whole chicken. When are we going to roast a chicken?
The apartments are much nicer than expected -- the term "corporate housing" always makes me think of a second-rate motel with a kitchenette and pastel wallpaper. But they did us well -- everything's clean, looks like it was painted or bought in the last couple years and the walls are, thank god, simply white. Best of all, there is a decent kitchen with a coffeemaker.
None of us still have a clue what's going to happen tomorrow, though at least we won't have yoga at 9:30 am. The anticipation is draining. The school doesn't really tell you anything until it happens. I've only heard vague references from other teachers that equate training to a strange sort of boot camp laden with mental and physical breakdowns. But no one goes into specifics. I think that's part of some strange secret pact. Maybe they make you sign a contract when you leave, promising not to discuss details of anything you did at teacher training.
But I ain't signed anything yet.
It's more of a sorting bin.
I arrive in the parking lot of Bikram World Headquarters, which is an unassuming building in a nondescript neighborhood.
From the outside, if the signs didn't say "Bikram Yoga" in large blue letters, you might mistake the building for a car dealership or abandoned warehouse. Everything is smaller and more run down than you'd expect.People are sitting around in the parking lot, but there are no signs, no people with clipboards, no indication of what to do and where to go. I wander up to a girl and say, "What do we do?" She says, "I think we all put our suitcases on that truck."
I trust blindly that the U-haul really is part of the program, and not someone making a killing off a parking lot full of clueless yoga students. Beyond the suitcase procedure, no one seems to know anything. I return to the girl and we chat.Jalena is originally from Bosnia, but has lived for quite a while in British Columbia. Her accent is much more Canadian than anything else. She's very chill, the type you'd want to take camping, or to Burning Man. We stick together as they herd us into the main yoga room, a large mirrored room with peach walls, lots of old photos of Bikram and his wife, Rajashree, demonstrating lots of poses against K-mart family photo backdrops, and a rough cream-colored carpet with thin blue lines running the length of the room. This is where we will spend the next nine weeks. We wait in several lines for books, room assignments, photos, blah blah, nothing very organized. After a few talks that no one can really process, we're divided up into van groups, and find our roommates. Jalena is about 3 rooms away.
My roommates are Nalini & Chastity. They're both from the same studio in Las Vegas, though they didn't know each other well before now. Chastity, 28, was born and raised in a trailer park under the name Chastity Christian. Logically, she went on to work for several years as a dancer in several clubs in Las Vegas. She has three kids -- Anthony, 11, Serena, 8, and Sadie Jo, 2. Chastity had a hip injury (related to childbirth, not the club) that plagued her for years until she started doing Bikram. She's been practicing for at least 2 years.
Nalini, 35, grew up on several ashrams in Massachusetts, upstate New York, and India. She arrived in India with her family when she was 16, and ended up staying for five years after her family left. She was actually born Penelope; Nalini is the name her meditation guru gave her. I have no idea what it means. She has a 10-year-old daughter. Before we leave the studio, I meet her daughter and a man whom Nalini introduces as "Varsha's father" -- no idea whether they're divorced, distant, or what. They seem to be very friendly.
Living with two moms makes me feel incredibly clueless and unprepared. Nalini drove here with a car full of stuff. (Can I say, I scored by getting a roommate with a car. This equals a certain degree of freedom on the weekends.) Chasity flew, but still brought about twice as much as I did. Between the two of them, the kitchen is already half full. But we still need something for the week beyond cereal, juice, crackers and vitamins, so we make a late night grocery run and have no idea what to buy. It's actually only 9 or 10 pm when we get back, but it feels like a week in itself. We come back with absolutely stupid things, like a whole chicken. When are we going to roast a chicken?
The apartments are much nicer than expected -- the term "corporate housing" always makes me think of a second-rate motel with a kitchenette and pastel wallpaper. But they did us well -- everything's clean, looks like it was painted or bought in the last couple years and the walls are, thank god, simply white. Best of all, there is a decent kitchen with a coffeemaker.
None of us still have a clue what's going to happen tomorrow, though at least we won't have yoga at 9:30 am. The anticipation is draining. The school doesn't really tell you anything until it happens. I've only heard vague references from other teachers that equate training to a strange sort of boot camp laden with mental and physical breakdowns. But no one goes into specifics. I think that's part of some strange secret pact. Maybe they make you sign a contract when you leave, promising not to discuss details of anything you did at teacher training.
But I ain't signed anything yet.
Side note from the TMI Department
And you wanna know why my ass was sore when I got off the plane? (You probably don't, in which case you should skip this post.) I have a freakin' hemorrhoid. I ain't proud saying it. I'm kinda horrified. I always thought they happened to older men and pregnant women, which, for the record, I am neither. But apparently five hours crashed out on the plane without moving is enough.
Goddammit.
This is not the bright and shiny way I wanted to kick off training.
I don't even know how to begin dealing with this fucker. Chris is one of those golden people that you can explain exactly why you have to go to the drugstore, without fear of reaction. These are also the times when having a nurse for a mother makes you feel less whiny about calling your mommy and asking what to do. She said not to worry, that it would go away in a few days. Just try not to put pressure on it and try to keep moving. Of course, what did we do in orientation but sit on backjacks on the floor for 3 hours.
Goddammit.
This is not the bright and shiny way I wanted to kick off training.
I don't even know how to begin dealing with this fucker. Chris is one of those golden people that you can explain exactly why you have to go to the drugstore, without fear of reaction. These are also the times when having a nurse for a mother makes you feel less whiny about calling your mommy and asking what to do. She said not to worry, that it would go away in a few days. Just try not to put pressure on it and try to keep moving. Of course, what did we do in orientation but sit on backjacks on the floor for 3 hours.
Fade Up: Hollywood and Yucca
Doesn't sound quite the same, does it.
Perhaps if the motion picture business had started at this intersection, instead of its more famous and lyrical neighbor, today we might merely refer to the Boulevard of Slightly Chipped Idle Fantasies. Tinfoiltown. Cinema might have remained a dilettante's medium, outstripped by the white-hot entertainment of vaudeville. Need we be reminded: location, location, location.
This intersection is where I spend my first night in LA, thanks to the hospitality of Chris and his chihuahua, Ramon. This name is customarily pronounced in the voice of a Mexican midget, perhaps a cousin of Speedy Gonzales, urgently summoning kin: Ramooonn! Take a few minutes to practice. Like most dogs, Ramon hates clothing. This does not stop Chris from dressing him in little outfits. But only once in a while. The producers of Showdog Moms and Dads can have a night off, for Christ's sake.
If you want movies, stars, cheap sunglasses plump packs of tourists, or a commemorative photo with a nearly life-size (and vaguely life-like) cardboard cut-out of Patrick Swayze circa 1987, then by all means, go to Vine. But if wigs and hooker shoes are your bag, this intersection beats all others with a big old stick. I find it much more appealing. Although I don't really need them, I'm tempted to buy a pair of powder blue vinyl, 8-inch heel, platform thigh boots. Because really, where else will you find them -- for $30, no less?
I feel for the magic-makers whose Walk of Fame stars sit here. The innocents who, in their flashbulb moment of glory 50 years ago, as the star was unveiled, had no clue that their place in history would most frequently be trod by women who entertain only by private engagement, and 6-foot men who sing cabaret under the name Louise Quartorze. Who decides where the Walk of Fame stars go now? Someone actually gets to say, "there's a space in front of the hooker wig shop. We could put her there." Only Hollywood has a firmament laid in the street.
I don't remember whose stars are actually at this intersection. I'm disoriented by a cocktail of jet lag, sleep deprivation, a flurry of packing confusion (the tank top. No, wait. The razor. Definitely the razor. Or maybe the jacket. What will matter in a sweaty room for 9 weeks? The tank top. Maybe they'll both fit if I leave out a pair of underwear...) and a medication whose effects are reminiscent of DayQuil. I stumble around the neighborhood with Chris for about 20 minutes before fading.
Chris's Sunday morning custom is to troll the Hollywood farmer's market and get tamales for breakfast. I didn't know that smoked salmon and cream cheese tamales were possible. Again, I am proved short-sighted. We sit on the curb and watch people as we eat. This is the LA I want to meet. The daily lives of normal people. The Yucca people.
I never thought of LA as a place where people actually lived. I always imagined it as a place where people with ridiculous salaries have lunch, make deals, drive shiny cars, have plastic surgery and occupy homes with large windows and swimming pools. Or a place where people with ridiculous pieces down 40s, make deals, drive tricked-out Buicks, pop a cap in someone's ass and occupy homes that belong to the sister of a friend's baby's father, which should be cool for a couple days until her boyfriend gets out of jail and comes home. Because he ain't down with that shit, man. He don't care what you did for him in second grade.
A certain amount of my teen angst stemmed from the fact that my high school existence bore no resemblance to John Hughes' iconic trilogy of Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink. What was wrong with me? Was it my hair? My skin color? My clothes? Or was it my school? Dammit, why did my parents send me to an all-girls' school? Never mind the academic advantages. HOW WILL I FIND MY JOHN CUSACK?! (So he only had an incidental role in Sixteen Candles. He ruled The Sure Thing and I'd still take him over Andrew McCarthy. Will anyone dispute me?)
Thank god I didn't see St. Elmo's Fire until after college.
Although most of the angst was made irrelevant by the release of Dead Poets' Society and college, most of the questions still lingered until a few months ago. A cable rerun of Pretty in Pink finally provided the answer: I didn't go to high school in Los Angeles. Or on a movie set. Duh. It seems stupid, that it took this long to figure it out. I suppose fiction is responsible for more of my life expectations than I realized.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
So here I am, to tour some mental back lots and see what's behind some of the cardboard cut-outs. Maybe some Yucca people in wigs and hooker boots. If I'm lucky.
Perhaps if the motion picture business had started at this intersection, instead of its more famous and lyrical neighbor, today we might merely refer to the Boulevard of Slightly Chipped Idle Fantasies. Tinfoiltown. Cinema might have remained a dilettante's medium, outstripped by the white-hot entertainment of vaudeville. Need we be reminded: location, location, location.
This intersection is where I spend my first night in LA, thanks to the hospitality of Chris and his chihuahua, Ramon. This name is customarily pronounced in the voice of a Mexican midget, perhaps a cousin of Speedy Gonzales, urgently summoning kin: Ramooonn! Take a few minutes to practice. Like most dogs, Ramon hates clothing. This does not stop Chris from dressing him in little outfits. But only once in a while. The producers of Showdog Moms and Dads can have a night off, for Christ's sake.
If you want movies, stars, cheap sunglasses plump packs of tourists, or a commemorative photo with a nearly life-size (and vaguely life-like) cardboard cut-out of Patrick Swayze circa 1987, then by all means, go to Vine. But if wigs and hooker shoes are your bag, this intersection beats all others with a big old stick. I find it much more appealing. Although I don't really need them, I'm tempted to buy a pair of powder blue vinyl, 8-inch heel, platform thigh boots. Because really, where else will you find them -- for $30, no less?
I feel for the magic-makers whose Walk of Fame stars sit here. The innocents who, in their flashbulb moment of glory 50 years ago, as the star was unveiled, had no clue that their place in history would most frequently be trod by women who entertain only by private engagement, and 6-foot men who sing cabaret under the name Louise Quartorze. Who decides where the Walk of Fame stars go now? Someone actually gets to say, "there's a space in front of the hooker wig shop. We could put her there." Only Hollywood has a firmament laid in the street.
I don't remember whose stars are actually at this intersection. I'm disoriented by a cocktail of jet lag, sleep deprivation, a flurry of packing confusion (the tank top. No, wait. The razor. Definitely the razor. Or maybe the jacket. What will matter in a sweaty room for 9 weeks? The tank top. Maybe they'll both fit if I leave out a pair of underwear...) and a medication whose effects are reminiscent of DayQuil. I stumble around the neighborhood with Chris for about 20 minutes before fading.
Chris's Sunday morning custom is to troll the Hollywood farmer's market and get tamales for breakfast. I didn't know that smoked salmon and cream cheese tamales were possible. Again, I am proved short-sighted. We sit on the curb and watch people as we eat. This is the LA I want to meet. The daily lives of normal people. The Yucca people.
I never thought of LA as a place where people actually lived. I always imagined it as a place where people with ridiculous salaries have lunch, make deals, drive shiny cars, have plastic surgery and occupy homes with large windows and swimming pools. Or a place where people with ridiculous pieces down 40s, make deals, drive tricked-out Buicks, pop a cap in someone's ass and occupy homes that belong to the sister of a friend's baby's father, which should be cool for a couple days until her boyfriend gets out of jail and comes home. Because he ain't down with that shit, man. He don't care what you did for him in second grade.
A certain amount of my teen angst stemmed from the fact that my high school existence bore no resemblance to John Hughes' iconic trilogy of Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink. What was wrong with me? Was it my hair? My skin color? My clothes? Or was it my school? Dammit, why did my parents send me to an all-girls' school? Never mind the academic advantages. HOW WILL I FIND MY JOHN CUSACK?! (So he only had an incidental role in Sixteen Candles. He ruled The Sure Thing and I'd still take him over Andrew McCarthy. Will anyone dispute me?)
Thank god I didn't see St. Elmo's Fire until after college.
Although most of the angst was made irrelevant by the release of Dead Poets' Society and college, most of the questions still lingered until a few months ago. A cable rerun of Pretty in Pink finally provided the answer: I didn't go to high school in Los Angeles. Or on a movie set. Duh. It seems stupid, that it took this long to figure it out. I suppose fiction is responsible for more of my life expectations than I realized.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
So here I am, to tour some mental back lots and see what's behind some of the cardboard cut-outs. Maybe some Yucca people in wigs and hooker boots. If I'm lucky.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Back on terra firma. Or is it?
I'm waiting in the Karma coffeehouse to meet up with my friend Chris, who has transplanted from LA to DC to NYC and back to LA. He's hosting me on the last night before I turn my soul over to Bikram.
The place is perfect. Even though I've been on a five-hour flight and my ass hurts, it's nice to sit on a soft couch where I can spread out with all my stuff. Funky atmosphere, impossibly beautiful people. There's a sunny pretty version of Josh Barrett behind the counter, and a woman knitting on the couch next to me. Everyone's really nice.
Before I came to LA, Jeremy Skidmore said: "You will want to move there. Don't." When I asked why I'd want to move here, he said, "It's just so relaxed." Never got around to asking why I shouldn't. People said the same thing when I went to visit San Francisco - "Oh, you'll never come back." But I think I'm just an east coast girl.
A dude with one of those geometric stick toys on his head just walked in. He sat down on the couch next to me and said, "How you doin', girl?" When in Rome. "Good." Then he said something else, which I couldn't catch. And it occurred to me that he might be on a headset, talking to someone else entirely. And then it occurred to me that the headset might just be in his head.
The place is perfect. Even though I've been on a five-hour flight and my ass hurts, it's nice to sit on a soft couch where I can spread out with all my stuff. Funky atmosphere, impossibly beautiful people. There's a sunny pretty version of Josh Barrett behind the counter, and a woman knitting on the couch next to me. Everyone's really nice.
Before I came to LA, Jeremy Skidmore said: "You will want to move there. Don't." When I asked why I'd want to move here, he said, "It's just so relaxed." Never got around to asking why I shouldn't. People said the same thing when I went to visit San Francisco - "Oh, you'll never come back." But I think I'm just an east coast girl.
A dude with one of those geometric stick toys on his head just walked in. He sat down on the couch next to me and said, "How you doin', girl?" When in Rome. "Good." Then he said something else, which I couldn't catch. And it occurred to me that he might be on a headset, talking to someone else entirely. And then it occurred to me that the headset might just be in his head.
D is for departure
Here we are, D-day, and I am petrified.
I know I'm bringing too much. Packing was more of an ordeal of what to leave behind, instead of what to bring. Supplements alone take up a fair amount of the suitcase:
I know I'm bringing too much. Packing was more of an ordeal of what to leave behind, instead of what to bring. Supplements alone take up a fair amount of the suitcase:
- multi-vitamins
- emergen-c
- calcium-magnesium-zinc tablets (for muscle cramps & immune support)
- kelp tablets (again, to prevent muscle cramps)
- and of course, a handy 7-day pill case that resembles a miniature alien craft, to ration them all.
I'm a traveling co-op, or a senior citizen in training.
Lara has given me a thermal water bottle cover, a card for every week of training, and lent me her beloved Superlunch. Superlunch is the thermal lunch bag that got her through training. She still uses it and we refer to it in tones usually reserved for stuffed animals, loyal pets or adopted children.
Two months worth of yoga clothes, toiletries, tampons, regular clothes - probably bringing too many regular clothes, or the wrong ones. I'm leaving both my long skirts - the green and the beloved denim, in favor of shorter ones. I'm bringing a pair of, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, green shorts. Which I will only wear on weekends, well away from the studio.
I want to unpack & repack everything, just to make sure I need it all, or that I didn't forget anything. Carolan & Shelby each took a packed car with them to training. I'm trying to cram everything into one medium rolling suitcase. Finally checked it curbside, and have just my mega Kipling backpack, mat bag, and purse to contend with.
Airports are now like the rest of the world: it's no use stopping for Starbucks when you first get there, because there will be another a few yards away. Although I don't feel too burdened, I have the turning radius of a giant upright tortoise, pregnant with twins. I know tortoises lay eggs, but this is strictly for visual effect. Getting in & out of the bathroom stall is somewhat comic, & conjures images of grubby Euro-hostellers. I start to think of what I can chuck on the way back. Suddenly, I flash forward to a conversation:
Jenny: You sold Superlunch?
Me: Yes.
Jenny: How could you sell Superlunch?
Me: I couldn't bear schlepping it back, and someone offered me $5 for it, so --
Jenny: You sold Superlunch for five dollars? You might as well have thrown it out in the street.
Me: ----
Jenny: Well, I'm not telling Lara. You're gonna have to break it to her.
The advantage of traveling with someone is that one person can camp with the luggage, while the other grabs coffee or runs to the bathroom, unfettered by stuff. Shoulders, sanity and Superlunch are saved. The disadvantage: pack travels slow. Lone fox walk fast.
Everyone seems to have boarded without fuss, collision or even much luggage. It's sooo quiet on this plane. Who are these people going to LA early on a Saturday morning? Where is their stuff, and why are these lovely docile baggage-free people not on all the other flights I have taken? Are they just as tired and petrified as I am? If so, what the hell is waiting for them on the other side of ths flight?
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