Namas-freakin-te

It was supposed to be a calming pre-class class, a mental vacation of sorts. I was going to lose weight, become flexible, realign my back, fix my posture, and all without breaking a sweat. Of course, I had envisioned all this before stepping one poorly pedicured toe onto a yoga mat, before I’d ever learned the terror of Pigeon or Warrior Three. And this was definitely before I met the drill sergeant that was my instructor.

The opening class, actually, was fairly optimistic. We learned all about our inner –spirit. The instructor discussed how, once we were flexible in body, we’d be sound in spirit. There were many “Namaste’s” thrown around. We sat, crossed-legged on the floor “Ohm’ing” into space and trying not to flicker the inner candle of our minds.

“We are going to try and think of this class as a time to calmly help our bodies reach maximum flexibility and endurance,” my instructor said with a monotone voice that somehow was heard over the Zen music slowly leaking out of the speaker next to my mat. “But first we must find serenity and peace.” We were told that to engage the mind with trivial things would constrict our abilities to reach our top potentials. Our goal? To completely clear our minds, to focus on the candle’s flame in our mind’s eye.

I spent the time quoting various movies—“Hey you guys!” was a common recurrence—and trying not to snore loudly. I couldn’t quite catch the concept of self-silence and inner-peace. Grocery lists, homework, gas prices, government issues, boy problems, friend dramas, and even a few day dreams occupied my mind fully, leaving little room for spring cleaning. Who was she kidding? A candle flame? A few times I tried to envision the flame, flickering alone in a dark room. My eyes were glued shut and I promised myself I’d focus on the flame. "Focus," I mentally cheered myself on. "Focus…Focus… Focus on potential. Potentially focus. Crap! I totally spaced that paper for Philosophy on the focus of Socrates." It was impossible, but bearable.

We learned how to breathe, “In through the nose, out through the nose.” For this exercise, we had to lie on our backs, eyes closed, hands on our diaphragm, feeling the muscle move our oxygen in and out. This was our cool-down period. “We’ll use it to relax our bodies each day after we peak each mountain phase.” With total serenity in mind, we ended the class, happy and willing to spend the rest of the semester with her.

That acceptance didn’t last long.

The next class, we breathed again, easy stuff. We’d done it before. “Now that we’ve gotten the rhythm of our breath down, let’s learn a few poses.” She looked so peaceful and friendly that no one suspected the lioness that waited, ready to pounce beneath the layer of Zen. Bowing she said, “Namaste.”

Then, she twisted her legs behind her, shoving her generous behind into the air, her hands planted firmly in her bright pink mat. “This,” she mumbled from beneath the sheet of blonde hair falling to the floor, “is downward dog. Please mimic my movements.”

I did, and from that moment on, pain has been an accompanying factor in every yoga lesson I’ve attended. I never do it right. My toe is off, or I shift my hips too high or too low. One time, she made me start from the beginning, prodding and poking places that could make a working woman blush.

After a “warm-up” that often leaves me dripping quarts of sweat onto my aquamarine mat, we get into the meat of the exercises. Things like Warrior One and Warrior Two are meant to stretch our hamstrings. When the instructor does it, she looks like a ninja ready to strike. We, as a class, look like a mass of stumbling drunkards. It does little for serenity when you can hardly keep your balance.

Another series is called Sun Salutation, but it’s more like a greeting from Hell. We must sit, as if in a chair. This mid-air squat kills my thighs, but to make it worse, we must bend down and touch our toes. Rising into monkey, we straighten our backs. “Remember your principles of alignment!” Then, we fall back into the dreaded downward dog, and do a yoga push-up. Yoga here is synonymous for “insanely difficult.” We can lower ourselves to the floor in a relaxing position called sphinx. It doesn't last long, however because it is right back into downward dog. Swan-diving up is the easiest part, but then we return quickly back to the chair squat. The whole thing is embarrassingly tricky and requires not only muscles, but a massive amount of patience and endurance.

“Breathe in through your nose,” she says to us, “and out through your nose.” I heave, trying to appear like I have control over my lungs when both the instructor and I know that the noise everyone is hearing is me, hyperventilating. Over and over, we do this “simple” series. By this time, it looks as if I’ve just returned from a lovely dip in a sweat tub, and I smell nearly the same.

However, the class always ends with a positive note. We cool down, doing our “Ohm’ing,” and cross-legged breathing exercises. The thin layer of sweat cools my over-extended body, and I can forgive her for trying to brutally slay me.

She bows to us, “Namaste.” We bow back, and the class ends.

The next day, as I struggle to sit on the toilet and pulling my pants over my stubbornly stiff legs becomes a grueling chore, I begin to hate her again, even more than ever. As I painfully hobble to my other classes, I imagine that I see her. She’d bow to me and say, “Namaste.”

I’d bow back. “Yeah. Namas-fuckin’-te.”

But I go to class every day, and everyday it gets a little easier to yoga down into a push up. And the next day, I don’t hurt as bad. I can smile at my instructor without too much venom. I can see my candle clearly without being distracted. I can peacefully look at myself in the mirror and be comfortable with the fact that I suck royally at all I am doing. It’s okay. It’s about obtaining my highest potential. It is then that I understand the seriousness of the term, and I can honestly look at this woman with a respectful air.

Namaste, I reverently bow to you.