I used to have an awesome yoga teacher. I loooooved his classes. I was never tempted to skip. In my new town I can’t go to yoga because of schedule conflicts. So I don’t know if the classes here are inferior, but I’m willing to bet that they are.
The next best alternative is Power Flow. What’s that, you ask? It’s “a blend of pilates and yoga moves,” or as I like to call it, “fifteen minutes of yoga and forty-five minutes of masochism.” j/k. It’s okay once you get used to it. But I do really miss yoga class. The Power Flow instructors talk like this: “Reaching to the floor, sweeping your arms up. Breathing in and out through your nose. Stepping out and to the left for Warrior Two. Lunging deeper.” Nothing but descriptive clauses. Don’t describe us! Instruct us! Gah.
And they don’t make it any easier with the music they play. A few weeks ago this came on and I thought I was being Punk’d:
Then tonight this came on:
What? There was also a Jack Johnson song about making banana pancakes and some rockin’ tunes by Incubus. I love that at the beginning of class we’re told “not to think of anything for the next hour.” And then they play the song from this clip (during “relaxation time,” no less):
Sorry, but I will never be able to hear that song again without having a laugh. Mr. Stokes!
And here’s a little anecdote for ya: The subject lines of my e-mails are shortened by Outlook. So today I got an e-mail from the department secretary. It said “Holiday Pa.” Holiday Party! Holiday Party! Something work-related, yet fun! I opened the e-mail. It was about Holiday Payroll.
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