Last night at yoga the lovely Marigold Lamb substitute taught the class in place of my nemesis, Sunshine Wheatgrass. I got there way early, as usual, and sat in the very back in anticipation of more yoga blanket folding angst, comments about my baggy yoga pants and gym sock debacles. When Marigold walked into class (late- ahem) I breathed a sigh of relief.
Having already been to the gym yesterday morning for my regular workout I was feeling all proud and sanctimonious that I was back there again on the same day for more punishment. After all, it is the holidays and I have over-indulged just like everyone else these past few weeks. So imagine my surprise and somewhat disappointment when Marigold announced we were going to do something called "restorative yoga". What on earth is that? Isn't all yoga restorative or is the regular kind actually designed to beat you to a pulp and leave you a quadriplegic? I was drawn, yet repelled by this new concept.
At any rate, and not to belabor the point, the class was fine and very relaxing in a stretchy sort of way. I will say that I have noticed no one in yoga class except for me seems to have a sense of humor, though. After class I told Marigold that I very much enjoyed her class but we should all really be taking this "restorative" class Thursday morning ha ha. She gave me an odd look and said "well, we will be closed for the holiday but I'm sure you can do this on your own at home." So of course I felt the need to explain my joke to her by saying "No, I mean because tomorrow is New Year's Eve and we will all need some restoration the next morning ha ha." Nothing, no response, blank look. Oh well.
Just then who should walk in but Sunshine Wheatgrass, up selling, of all things! She had a handful of fliers and was talking about all of us showing up at her yoga studio Thursday morning at 10 am to participate in something called "108 Sun Supplications" or something. She handed me a flyer, calling me by name and telling me she expected to see me there Thursday morning. Never mind that it cost $20 for the privilege of getting out of bed the morning after New Year's Eve and then enduring whatever odd rituals, supplemented by heated crystals, Sunshine had cooked up for us. I said thanks and would think about it, handed the flyer to another unsuspecting soul and beat it out of there. They can have my share of supplications and hot crystals on New Year's Day. I will be at home with Paco, eating black-eyed peas and watching the Rose Bowl. On my yoga mat.