One of my fondest college memories was the two semesters worth of gym classes I took with my girlfriends. The first was a step class fit for old ladies or stoners like us in '80s jazzercise wear! The soundtrack to step class was not as memorable as senior year, second semester Pilates instruction where Peggy Levine played the Brazilian Girls which teaching us how to tone our posteriors and abs on the mat.
At Yoga Work's Monday night class which I've now experienced with three different teachers, there is no music. After a communal oooommmmmm chat, the class begins stretching into basic Yoga poses. There is no cracking a smirk or bursting into giggles during a particularly compromising position alongside your leg warmer clad roommate. The real world isn't so bad though. Although members of my Flatiron yoga enclave take their Vinyasa's quite seriously, they are more or less mellow people I suppose.
After the first two classes I started to get used to the crunch factor and began to appreciate the workout and relaxation. On Saturday I even went to yoga on the weekend which scores me major points because it was so hard! Don't you just hate those people who are naturally flexible? When I returned home I tried to demonstrate a painful pose to my roomates, and I felt surprisingly limber! This springtime Yoga foray is appealing I think. Another communal closet member who recently moved into the East Village has started participating at a studio called Yoga for the People. Maybe when we master our poses we'll practice on the roof or with yoga freaks in Thompson Square Park.
We will keep you posted in this quest for fitness! But, for now, I'll leave you with a cute pair of American Apparel '70s style track shorts,: an ode to Hugh, my favorite Yoga instructor at Columbia who used to teach in a more authentic version of these.
