CACALOCKS AND THE F--KING YOGA CLASS
My first student today asked me to adjust her more strongly in an intense forward bend. I'd never seen her before and didn't know her practice, plus her breathing was rough and uneven. So what if it was a Mysore class. I told her I wouldn't do it.
My last student today asked me not to adjust him at all. He was visiting from another city and had some back issues. Apparently he'd been injured many times while practicing ashtanga -- but only when someone was adjusting him. When he mentioned the cracked rib I said, "Did it happen during a Marichyasana adjustment?" Of course it did. I feel your pain.
Between episodes I subbed a half-hour class called Yoga on the Ball. I didn't want anyone to get hurt (and I'm not really sure what the hell Yoga on the Ball means), so instead of bringing out the physio balls we did a quick vinyasa class sans props. It seemed to go well. That is, until the buff man who taught the next class marched in two minutes early like he owned the place -- while everyone was still in savasana -- and started fiddling with the stereo. HUH?
Later, in the locker room, a woman told me how much she'd enjoyed going ball-less. "I really needed that," she said. "I used to do a lot of yoga but I had a sciatica problem on and off for a long time, one month at work, one month off, bla bla.... and I'm finally easing back into it...."
She kept talking, occasionally lapsing into a Brooklyn accent.
"...I'm in a car all day working and it sucks... After work I'm tired and the last thing I want to do is take a fucking yoga class. But this was really good."
To hear the words "fucking" and "yoga class" next to each other in the same sentence, unprompted! So unexpected. So taboo. So..... refreshing.
I wanted to hug her. But I'm not the hugging type.
Now at last the year can end on a happy note.