January 3, 2012

The Non-Yogic Studio & Thunder from Down Under.

The Thunder from Down Under boys

When one door closes, another one opens… but the hallway is a bitch!

It’s the universe’s way of telling us to move on from our current situation because we’re cosmically ordained for another path. Our doors come in all different shapes and sizes: not getting into the college we want to or sitting in unexpected bumper-to-bumper traffic. No matter the size, the hallway is always the same – Why did this happen to me? It’s not fair! And so on and so forth…

I had spent the last 30 days isolated in the Mojave Desert with a hankering for a good hot yoga class. You know, the type where you sweat your ass off and savasana is a blissful reprieve. Nothing against my morning Ashtanga practice, but I really missed the energy of a packed class, all embracing the suck at the same time while not trying to think about the sweat dripping off your nose. My 30 days ended in Las Vegas, so I decided to see what Vegas had to offer for hot yoga.

I really wasn’t feeling a Bikram class (and I had to get on a red eye later that night), so I decided to go to a hot yoga studio about 5 minutes from the Las Vegas strip. I grabbed my mat, yogi towel and water and headed off to the 4 p.m. class. Needless to say, my directional sense isn’t the best. I made a wrong turn (or two) and arrived five minutes before the class started. I was sure a hot yoga studio in Las Vegas would let me sign their “I will not sue you” statement, here’s my emergency contact info and I’ll gladly give you all my mailing addresses – after class. I rushed up a narrow stairwell with all my yogi stuff awkwardly in hand (I didn’t want to pay the extra airline fee to bring a yoga bag).

As I opened the door, I wasn’t sure if I was in the right spot. Every person was neatly groomed and put together like they walked out of a lululemon ad. I quickly glanced down at my attire. Some fitted black capris from Walmart, a ruffled Disneyland sweatshirt and socks with green ballet flats. What can I say? The hotel didn’t have a washing machine in the room and yes… I wore socks with my ballet flats. I had been walking in those shoes all day and the last thing I wanted were for my feet to smell.

And did I mention my hair? The hair dryer in my hotel room was broken so I was rockin’ a party of bobby pins, clips and a hair band. I then realized that it’s just yoga, these people probably don’t care. The receptionist glanced at me and said “What?” I looked at him awkwardly and replied, “I’m here for the 4 p.m. yoga class?”

I was somewhat confused because I was looking for a yoga class, not someone with a stick up their ass. He rolled his eyes “Do you have a mat, yogi toes, water? Do you know what you’re doing?” Of course I had everything and it was all in plain sight in both hands. The receptionist said, “You’re too late for the 4 p.m. class.” I replied, “I’ve done hot yoga before. How about the 4:30 p.m. class?” It was a yoga/Pilates fusion… not exactly what I was looking for, but whatever. He leaned over the desk and gave me a silent once over and said “These classes are probably not appropriate for you.”

Without saying a word I turned around and left. Should I have stayed and put on a display of absolute yoga awesomeness? Hell no! Last time I checked, yoga had nothing to do with what I was wearing, what I looked like or how badass my poses were. The hot yoga door was shut and I entered the bitch of a hallway. My feelings were hurt. I almost cried in the car… seriously.

Why was he so mean?

Was he having a bad day?

What did I do wrong?

Blah blah blah…you get my point. With a winning combination of frustration, attitude and boredom, I decided to check out the hotel gym. I relinquished myself to the treadmill and my iPod. After three aggravated miles, I pulled out my mat and found a private little corner for a short practice. It wasn’t until I was practicing Adho Mukha Vrksasana (handstand) that a beautiful male specimen of the human race approached me. Tall, tan, very fit with an incredible Australian accent.

He was the only other person in the gym.

He asked how I was able to get into handstand and that he had been working on handstands against the wall. He seemed harmless enough (and gorgeous enough), so I proceeded to give him some tips since he was clearly capable, but just needed a little help on the technique. Five minutes later two more beautiful male specimens of the human race walked into the gym towards my new Australian friend and me. Strangely enough, these gentlemen were just as tan, fit and both of them also spoke with an Australian accent. It turned out that these men also wanted to learn how to do handstands.

I spent the next 30 minutes instructing my new friends, just like I would any student in my yoga class. After we finished, I asked one of the Australians if they were on vacation. He said “No…we’re performers in the Thunder from Down Under show.” I smiled to myself and bid them good luck. I may not have found the kick-ass hot yoga class I was looking for, but I got to give yoga instruction to a few gorgeous male strippers.

I think the trade-off was more than fair.

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