It just may be true that there’s a connection between sex and yoga.
This may not be popular among my more truth-seeking friends who can debate the difference between Tantra, Rajanaka and Shiva/Shakti philosophies, but those of us who have our butt on the mat instead of our head in the stars have another perspective.
“Arousal, sweating and heavy breathing lead to predictable results,” writes William Broad in The New York Times. And may I add, duh?
I used to teach at a downtown studio where the population of yoginis to yogins was like, 50 to 1. While at most studios the adjustments I offered were to ask students to pull the sides of their waist back, or to engage something and at the same time let something go, at this studio I offered the kind of helpful advice you do not often hear from your yoga teacher.
“Sweetheart,” I said to one yogini, “You might want to put on some undies because the whole room can tell you’re a real brunette.” To another I offered, “If you want to get married, I might suggest you do not give away the dairy with that outfit.” For some reason, they asked me to not to teach at that studio anymore.
They probably thought I was just another suburban housewife looking for a little excitement in the yoga room while the kids were at Kindergarten. And, you know, to some degree they were right. When I first began yoga, I was looking for relief from my aching back (actually, I was looking for the Pilates room in my local gym, but I got lost, and that’s how I found yoga). But please, don’t sell us suburban housewives short; we can be a rocking bunch.
One day early in my yoga journey I went to a studio looking for a class in Anusara and the teacher did not show up. So the manager offered that I should take a class in Kundalini instead. Of course, I don’t know the difference but I do know that the Universe created this opportunity for some purpose (I learned that in a yoga class somewhere).
The teacher had us sit and breathe. Ha ha ha, hee hee hee. It was just like giving birth, except you know, without the blinding screaming pain from being ripped apart. I’m thinking, “Okay, I’m done with this nonsense.”
That night my husband and I got the kids to bed and then got down to business since I suppose one of us was still awake.
And all of a sudden, I am on the freaking ceiling.
“What was that?” Mike asked. Because truthfully, after 10 years of marriage and two toddlers things can get a little predictable in the sack, if those things even still exist. “Tell me what I did so I can do it again,” he said.
“I don’t think it was you,” I said. “I think it was that yoga class I took today.”
“Holy cow,” he said. “You need to go back right away.”
And that is how I became a yoga teacher.
Editor: Kate Bartolotta.
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. A Letter to my Children: You do not come from a Broken Home. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. Mom, can I Call her Mom, Too? How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. Jon Stewart makes first appearance since retiring—”it’s not your country.”