I don’t understand people who are addicted to things other than yoga. Like, really. It is all you need. Sometimes I wonder why yoga-related apparatuses are not deemed contraband because all they do is enable my quest for that really ridiculously awesome yoga high.
Hot yoga is one of the most brilliant things you can do for your body. I know this because I am living proof of a sweaty pretzel. During a 90-minute power flow session today, I found myself contorted to the point where I didn’t think I’d ever be able to walk again. Lying in shavasana, I had visions of me being wheeled out in a wheelchair lamenting my days of warrior two. But alas, I left the studio feeling at least a foot taller than my 5’2/5’3 frame.
Which leads me to my next point: what is height? Okay, it’s a measurement of the top of your head in relation to the floor, duh! But I mean, what does it mean to be tall? Why is the pursuit for a powerful stature such a crucial one in both industrial and social settings? Is it to compensate for what we really lack deep down?
People tell me I have a tall presence. Well thank God for that! Why do women wear heels? Why are taller men more likely to be hired for a job over their shorter counterparts? It seems to me that men and women use height for different things. I find it interesting because sometimes height is favored and sometimes retreating into a ball of vertical ineptitude is the most endearing thing ever (I hope. Please say yes.)
Calories aside, yoga is such a holistic experience in itself that it kind of offends me that studios feel the need to adorn their walls with kitschy Buddhist trinkets and the like. The practice in itself, the act of using your body to do wonderful things, is inherently spiritual. Like a framed piece of paper on the wall next to where I’m peeing is really going to tell me how to achieve inner peace.