Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Paxil-Addled Soccer Mom Yoga #5


Greg Friendlyberry is the teacher today at the yoga studio. His name isn’t Greg Friendlyberry, but it is truly similar. He is heavy on the Namaste, maybe overly-friendly, but I’m finding I no longer mind.

I don’t know if it is a consequence of Paxil® or just a nod to the fact that worse things can happen than slightly ridiculous New-Age Starbucks SUV-piloting suburban soccer moms all chanting ‘OM’ in different keys, but I find I don’t care about it anymore. I still can’t say ‘Namaste’ and bow in a pseudo-spiritual 'the-light-in-me recognizes-and-honorsthe-light-in-you Om-Shanti-Shanti-Om let-me-thank-myself-for-my-practice' sort of way, but if everybody else wants to do it, that’s just fine with me. They can even play that “Sounds of Nirvana” CD, the one with a tinkling faucet, a few carefully placed sitar notes, and a Casio-constructed orchestral background. It’s silly, but soothing in a way. I even like the aromatherapy candles.

All that said, I was still a little shocked- well, mildly surprised might be the more appropriate Paxil grammar- by Mr. Friendlyberry’s shivasana at the end of class. It was just normal at first, falling into that half-conscious state of supreme relaxation, but after a minute or two, I heard a sound I could only describe as exactly like stirring ground beef in a bowl with a wooden spoon. It turns out, this is the exact same sound of someone lathering their hands with goopy lavender hand lotion. I break shivasana etiquette and open my eyes, only to be looking up Greg’s shorts, as he is straddling me in the method of someone spotting a weightlifter in the gym. I really don’t know what to say or do, so I just close my eyes again, hoping he isn’t planning on molesting me in a spiritual way. He smears the lotion on my shoulders, which is just plain weird, but I play along, figuring supple shoulder skin isn’t too bad a consequence for not screaming “WTF are you doing!?!”. I figure it is over after a minute, but no, he then cups his hands over my ears, and the lotion has the effect of hermetically sealing my satellite dishes off from the world, and now I feel terribly odd, cut off from the rest of the world for a moment. He finishes by rubbing a lavender-scented bhindi on my forehead- the religious locale that ash is rubbed on when you enter a Hindu temple- and frankly the Paxil takes over. I figure this is the suburban ceremony, and as long as he removes his crotch from my direct line of sight, I will go along with it.

1 comment:

Darla said...

oh boy, i'm laughing my ass off at you tonight. this is some funny stuff. the lotion thing and the up-shorts shot is too much! i had a teacher the other day come and stand on the soles of my feet and squish them aorund with her feet...after doing it to everyone else around me first, and then moving on to the others.

i was so grossed out, who knows what foot crud she spread around. teachers need to ask before doing that "non-asana" touching.