In Through the Funky Door: A Tale in Three Acts.

Act I: Gathering the Where-with-all

2:30 is the time of reckoning for me. It is currently noon.

I’m being rather dramatic, sure, but I’ve been putting this off for so long that the notion of just going in the building has become saddled with artificial gravitas. I’ve heard SO MUCH about this place, from both directions, that it has grown beyond its britches in my own imagination, at least.

Before we enter the studio, I need to make one last editorial aside: A last note on Mr. Bikram Choudury, and I’ll be done. I paint him as an asshat, but I don’t know the man, and it is probably unfair. I’ve heard stories from people who have, and while many say he is boastful, noting how many swimming pools he owns in public presentations, others have said he is compassionate, in ways that I won’t divulge on a public blog, even if this ain’t the Huffington Post. And there is some notion that his ‘suing’ debacle may be concern for his sequence being executed correctly, rather than for the money. God knows he has enough. It’s hard to know what is true: It is all hearsay, and the most likely truth is that he is a measure of both, which just makes him a little more gauche, and touch more human, just like the rest of us, I suppose.

So, let us focus on the studio. I’ve heard rumors of boot-camp instruction, pictures of cartoon yoga on the wall, egos-a-plenty. I know I’ll only last at this studio this one time, so it is first impressions only for the Funky Door. Perhaps unfair, maybe, perhaps not. Who can say?

OK, I can. It will be unfair, and I clearly haven’t learned my ‘hearsay’ lesson, because I am predisposed to be critical, but then again, they’re the ones who painted flames on their windows and chose to name the studio after B.O., so they sorta have it coming. At least I’m as forthright with my prejudice as they are with the smell.

And so, FINALLY, off I go.

*Crossing my fingers and plugging my nose*

Time to do this.