Where are you, Kristen Wiig?

I felt like I was on the set of an SNL skit (one of my dreams, actually). I walked into the beautiful yoga studio of light wood floors, white walls, and a multitude of windows; if it weren’t for the numerous fancy speakers mounted in every corner, I would say the space defined purity. I set up my mat in the back left of the room between an ancient smiley man in swim trunks and young blonde girl. Both the elder (I then second guessed my mat placement out of fear that he may drop dead during class) and the peppy girl seemed to be good friends with the teacher…but then I realized that everyone had some sort of special relationship with Steve, our yoga instructor who left a trail of pungent cologne with his every step.

While the students, each of whom resembled a Beverly Hills Stepford wife or husband, in this Levels 2-3 yoga class hugged one another, Steve proceeded to the speakers, pressed play, and BOOM…50 cent was rapping hard. I could feel the vibrations pulsing through my butt which was perfectly aligned with the speaker in the corner. Steve began the class (everyone was still on their neighbor’s mat talking about something super important) by screaming to stand up…I think that’s what he said?  Steve’s class went a little like this: go down, come up, downward dog, right leg up, down, stand, other side…If I hadn’t done yoga for the past five or so years, I think I may have stood at the top of my mat like a chicken with it’s head cut off for the duration of the class. And I guess it wouldn’t have mattered much because everyone was in different poses.

A couple of rows ahead of me to the right stood an impeccably bronzed man in a turquoises bathing suit who proceeded to twist himself in a pretzel, then unwrap his braided legs out to a split, gazing around the room to see if his knotted body amassed any gazes. In the front right of the class a woman in black spent the whole hour and a half long session in various handstand poses. And next to her bounced a young girl in Warrior I snapping her fingers, shimmying her shoulders, and shaking her body to the rhythm of the jam. A young lithe brunette walked in late and set up her mat on the raised bay window stage at the front of the room. She wore a long-sleeved Hello Kitty shirt, and like the Warrior I dancer-girl, she too bounced in Crescent, but kept her face serious, dramatizing each pose by moving her hands and wrists like a gypsy dancer. When we turned to face the side of the room, I couldn’t help but notice the girl a few rows in front of me wearing a normal bra under a see-through white shirt. Her pants were situated halfway down her butt so as to expose more than half of her ugly, black, stringy thong. And two people down from me rested a man in Child’s pose on his phone texting.

“Is this real life!?” I thought, laughing out loud. Where in the world was Kristen Wiig?!

It’s hard to even knock this class…I felt like I’d finally been to an SNL show. And just the fact that I didn’t hurt myself, or that Old Yeller next to me didn’t die, was satisfaction enough.

Moral of the story: This is not yoga! Classes like this are injuries waiting to happen. But if you’re looking for a good laugh, this might just be the cure.

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