Namaste, A Sweaty Girl's Attempt To Yoga

I have done yoga countless times in a variety of different studios, but I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself a yogi.  I often turn right, when left is said, my balance being far from perfect; I struggle maintaining even the most basic of poses most days.  But I have seen an improvement in my yoga practice, my flexibility and even in my balance, if I’m consistent that is.

I also like the non judgmental displays of zenness.  If you want to lay in child’s pose for the entirety of class, no one bats an eye; they let you be you.  It’s always been more of a relaxing experience for me, something I do after an intense cardio session.  I’m not saying I’ve never had tough yoga classes before, because I have, but doing yoga in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, I have to say, was next level.  It also probably didn’t help that I chose a studio that often gets semi famous instructors periodically to teach specific classes.

First things first, signing up.  I decided that since I’m here for a month and a yoga studio is literally down the street from our apartment, I would do it.  They actually had a one month unlimited, one class per day, pass to purchase.  Perfect, I thought, that’s just for me.  And it was only 1300 pesos, which is about 70 dollars.  That’s like half the price I was paying in America.  

I showed up to the studio, my heart in my chest, per usual.

What if they don’t speak English was the thought that was dominating most of my brain cells.  My translate app on my phone was open, my questions already typed in at the ready, just in case.

The guy who greeted me was built like a yogi, slender, toned and attractive in a too pretty to even want to talk to me sort of way and I could see it in his eyes. He was thinking what I already know about myself.

”Hola,” I began anyway. I hated that my voice shook a bit, but I forged ahead.  “Habla ingles?”  

He shot me a look that clearly said that yes, he spoke English and I was a dumbass for even entertaining the idea that he did not. To be fair to him, the website was all in English and besides all that I was looking far from my best having just come from a four mile walk at 11AM, yes it took me four miles to get up the courage to go to the studio.  I should have done it before my walk, but I apparently needed the endorphin rush to boost my self confidence.

I then proceeded to tell him what I needed, filled out the various online forms, misspelling my name of course, because that’s what I do.  I’m Elizabeth Rafa Orta to the studio; I’m not entirely mad about the name change.

I finished everything and even asked him to explain how I needed to check in, which he did.  There is a check in situation with a computer that you do upon entering.  I immediately knew that would be something that I was going to worry about all night and into the next morning and that’s precisely what I did because my brain is that dumbass person that I saw in his eyes when he looked at me.

The next day I showed up ten minutes before the class started.  I was confused about the check in procedure, like I knew that I would be.  Apparently mister pretty yoga man had already checked me in; this would have been information that I would have loved to know when I asked him about it the previous day.  But no matter, the hardest part was over, or so I thought.  I blindly walked where I thought the yoga would be taking place.  One room was already full of people, even though the first class was supposed to be over at this point.  Shit, I thought, did I get my time’s wrong? The last room was empty, so I made my way inside.

I looked at my watch; the class was supposed to begin in five minutes. How embarrassing to be the only participant, my worst nightmare. And besides all that, the room was sweltering and I didn’t even bring a towel.  Sweat beads immediately began to roll down my face, as if they heard my thoughts and wanted their presence to be known to me.

I sat up my station in the front of the room anyway; I have no idea why I would do that, it just made some kind of sense to me. A man with a high bun entered the room first and immediately went to the fans, clicking them on one right after the other, thank goodness for that, and then he proceeded to unroll his mat on the opposite side of the room.  Is he the instructor, was my immediate thought, but then I remembered that it was a her.  I changed positions, as you would when not wanting to be front and center in a class that very well could be spoken in a language not your own.

The class of course started a good 10 minutes after it should have; I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point and why I insist upon showing up to things early in Mexico. This is me waiting for class to begin.

Diana, the instructor, was perhaps in her 50s, asked if I understood Spanish and then proceeded to teach the class in both English and Spanish.  By this time there was about six or seven others who had joined the class.  I felt bad that she was taking the time to speak in both languages, thinking that I was probably the only English speaker, but I was thankful as well for I really would have been lost.

The whole experience taught me several things.  First, Americans are delicate flowers.  The way she corrected each of my poses, not asking if it was ok to touch me, but just doing it, with force, and confidence, that made me feel at times like I was some sort of misbehaving child; the black sheep in a class full of very flexible, very balanced angels.  Second, I was not doing most poses correctly as you probably already gathered from all of that correcting. And third, you cannot zone out when Diana is your instructor  because she will most definitely call you out.  

It was all so difficult and challenging.  She held poses for way longer than I’ve had to hold them before and her eagle eyes never missed when I was not nailing a certain pose.  She was by my side, moving my knee one way, my arm another, telling me to breathe out of my nose, not my mouth, making my legs straighter, my arms looser.

It was a workout.  I was afraid to even look at my watch to check the time.  I will of course be back, maybe to take another instructor I thought when it was all over, that is until Diana asked me if I enjoyed the class and I could feel my head begin to vehemently nod up and down and my mouth moved into a bunch of yeses.

”I will be teaching tomorrow’s class, same time,” she told me, although it felt more like a command, a command that I wouldn’t dare say no to.

”I’ll be there,” I heard myself say and I will go again, try to figure out the check-in process again and try to land all of the poses without Diana’s criticisms again.  I’ve already signed up. 

Perhaps my favorite part was when G asked if I made any friends.  Sometimes I don’t think he knows me at all.  No, of course I didn’t make any friends.  I kept my head down, afraid to make eye contact with a single person.  I did ask for pretty boy’s name after he registered me for the class; a name in which I promptly forgot 2.5 seconds after he told me so I don’t even really know why I asked.

I hope to get better at yoga after this month of going to this particular studio, but I‘m beginning to miss the comfortability of the familiar, something that will probably go away after awhile when new things become my new normal, although I don’t see myself making friends any time soon, but who knows, maybe pretty boy and I will become besties and I will find out that he actually thinks he’s as awkward and strange as I know that I am.