| Oct. 10, 2004
Anarchy on my yoga mat: I was a yoga punk rocker By REBECCA COOK
Associated Press Writer SEATTLE (AP) _ As an expert in neither yoga
nor punk rock, I wasn't sure what to expect from a class called "Punk
Rock Yoga."
But I was curious enough to give it a try. So I dusted off the yoga mat
that had been sitting in the corner since January, and headed for a
downtown, all-ages nightclub that doubles as a yoga studio on Tuesday
nights.
But
first, what does one wear to a punk rock yoga class? Combat boots and a
mohawk seemed a little too much, so I went with basic black and a
ponytail, hoping I wouldn't stand out too much among the punks. No
worries. Students' fashions ran the gamut from soccer mom to bike
messenger.
A few
spotlights illuminated the stage where guitarist Christopher Hydinger
set up. A plate of votive candles and a scattering of red and blue
lights gently shone on our circle of yoga mats.
I sat
cross-legged on my mat, noticing the scuffs and dirt on the floor.
Instructor Kimberlee Jensen told us to listen to our bodies and feel
ourselves rooting deep into the earth. I listened to a bus accelerating
up 4th Avenue.
"Let
the outside world fade away," she said. A police siren wailed nearby.
OK,
I'm rooting, I'm centering. I listened to the guitar, which sounded like
a heartbeat.
We
stretched our arms to the sky (or rather, to the disco ball) and then
swooped down into the "chair" and "monkey" poses.
The
wisdom of the dim lighting was revealed to me when, inevitably, I messed
up and did a chair when everyone else was doing the monkey.
This
is why I avoid group fitness classes - I'm always the uncoordinated one
going left when everyone else goes right. Here, no one notices or cares.
I
realize punk rock yoga means no wall-length mirrors and no judgmental
yoga babes with perfect abs and $60 yoga pants - dye my hair purple and
slap a safety pin in my ear, because I'm starting to like it.
The
music flowed with the poses, speeding up and slowing down as our energy
level fluctuated. When Jensen asked us to hold the chair pose for
approximately, oh, five hours, Hydinger sped up his strumming into a
flamenco-type beat. It sounded like the soundtrack to the climatic
shoot-out scene in an old Western.
The
90-minute yoga class worked muscles I never knew I had. I'll admit, a
few times I took notes on my reporter's pad just to give myself a break.
(Sample note: "Ow. This is hard.")
During the abdominal work at the end, Jensen sweetly advised, "It should
feel like almost torture."
Yes,
it was tough. My tree pose swayed in the wind and my plank looked more
like a melting stick of butter. The next morning, my sore muscles felt
as though I'd spent hours in a mosh pit. (Not that I've ever been in a
mosh pit - I bruise easily.)
Still, I have to thank
Jensen for reminding me that in yoga, there's more than one way to
rock-hard abs and inner peace. I might even unroll that yoga mat at home
- and crank up the Ramones.
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