What I Learned from my “Fuck-it” Chakra
To yoga or not to yoga: It’s an easy question, unless you’re an over-booked, obsessive neurotic who really needs her yoga to be just right. By Mary Birdsong
Item #12 on my to-do list: yoga. I was just wrapping up item #11 (lunch with Kate) and I was really torn about whether I should take a free yoga class at Crunch in the afternoon to get it over with or go to a $16 yoga class at night at a place I really love that feels more “spiritual.”
After leaving Kate and the café (just blocks from Crunch) I kept peeking at my list as I drove, and had to pull the car over to the side of the road three times in 15 minutes because I couldn’t make up my mind. Finally the thrifty part of me, and the OCD-Lite list-maker in me that gets practically orgasmic crossing another “to do” off, decided to go to the free yoga class at Crunch to get to the crossing-off quicker. If I drove fast I could make it there in time. It probably wouldn’t be as spiritually satisfying as the night-time yoga class at groovy, candle-lit Karuna in Los Feliz (it’s taught by a bona fide Asian guy, so you know it’s gotta be good). But I took solace in the fact that the Crunch yoga instructor was still a favorite of mine. A short, sturdy Caucasian fellow named Steven, whose speaking voice sounds remarkably like Dan Akroyd. It’s timbre is so specifically Akroyd-esque that even though it has that trademark Conehead stiffness to it, it is still soothing. One listens to it as a dog listens to a human. The actual words don’t much matter. Maybe when I hear Steven speak, some part of me travels back to 1980. To my teenage years spent watching “SNL.” When it was still funny. And I was still limber.
I drove to Crunch telling myself everything would be okay once I was under the Hatha spell of Steven’s voice. Even the incessant “oon-che-oon-che-oon-che” disco beat of the main gym floor outside the glass-walled yoga studio wouldn’t kill my bodhi buzz. But when I got to the class, Steven wasn’t there. Instead, it was… “Yoga Stan.” That’s what he called himself. He explained that he was subbing for Steven. What? A sub? NO ONE TOLD US THERE COULD BE YOGA SUBS! He was a 7-foot-tall, blue-eyed, bleach-blond beach bum with tan-orexia. He didn’t sound like Dan Akroyd at all. At best he sounded like Spicolli from “Fast Times At Ridgemont High.” And I didn’t respect him. He was a sub. Images of throwing spitballs at him while standing in tree pose flashed through my third eye.
I tried to relax, and told myself that I should simply pay attention to this feeling of resistance and let it go. No more attachment! I was detached. I was going to entrust my enlightenment to Yoga Stan. But the straw that broke my downward-dog back was when Yoga Stan unwittingly misused an analogy about a piano. He referred to the floor as a piano. Fine. Fair enough. I was with him. “Reach to the right. Good. Now, reach to the far left. Yes… reach for all those high notes on the far left of this keyboard.” And all I could think was, Look, dumb-ass. The notes on the left side of the piano get progressively lower, not higher. It was really gnawing at me. I was mad at him for messing up my piano, I was mad at him for not being Asian. And I was mad at him for not being Dan Akroyd. The bad vibe I’d gotten at minute one went from bad to abysmal by minute two. He’d just said, “Um, like…” one too many times, and a little cartoon bubble came out of my solar plexus that said “just leave.” I wanted to, but didn’t dare. I didn’t want to hurt Yoga Stan’s feelings.
But just then something magical happened inside of me. Something not unlike the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes on that snowy mountaintop. I was so close to people-pleasing my way through an hour and a half of “cobras and pigeons and cows, oh my,” but something in me snapped. No, not a vertebra.
I think my “fuck it” chakra opened up.
I decided to leave, no matter what anyone on the multi-colored mats around me thought, no matter what Yoga Stan thought. In that moment the clouds parted and a million celestial Al-Anon meetings cheered. The CoDA cherubs on high struck me with their self-care arrows. And for the big finish? That creepy Hindu god that’s half elephant made an appearance and said in a thick, curry-laden accent “Right on, Mary! Listen to your ‘fuck it’ chakra. This Yoga Stan is a total poser.”
The elephant was right. I was outta there.
Hooray for boundaries! In the past I would’ve stayed to not hurt his feelings. But not now. I was a new woman. Granted, I didn’t march out with fist raised and head held high. I just sort of lamely pointed to my stomach, rolled up my matt, smiled weakly at him and made an “I feel sick” face. He made an “I understand, feel better,” face. It was an elaborate performance on my part for his benefit. But at least I didn’t waste 90 minutes of my life. Progress, not perfection. But what Yoga Stan doesn’t know is that as soon as I was out of the yoga studio and back on the main gym floor, surrounded by blasting “oon-che-oon-che-oon-che” West Hollywood beats, I hid around the corner and put on my sneakers. I then raced downstairs to run on the very un-groovy American treadmill for 30 minutes. After all, I’d come all this way, and I couldn’t allow myself to leave without having accomplished something on my list. Item #13? Cardio.
As I ran, I hoped I wouldn’t get “caught” by Yoga Stan. The yoga class would end an hour after I finished running, so I was probably safe. But I still had a couple of fantasies of him finding out somehow. Some sort of yoga truant officer who would throw me in a paddywagon for faking my own intestinal discomfort. Or a disgruntled Crunch employee telling Yoga Stan what I’d done right as he was thinking “Gee, I wonder how that really beautiful lady who left my class writhing in pain is feeling?” Then it got silly.
I did go to the candle-lit Los Feliz yoga place later that night, and it was amazing. It was spiritually moving, and a great workout, and I even had a very visceral emotional response to pigeon pose. Love that pigeon. It’s always a sure thing for me. My yogic, emotional g-spot, if you will.
As my hips opened up, my head to the floor (to the floor, mind you, not to “the piano.”) tears gushed forward and I sopped up the snot with my all-cotton wife-beater. Tears of what. Gratitude? Maybe. Whatever it was, it was a great release. But the best release of all? Crossing off the word “yoga” on my list.
Have you experienced an awakening of “fuck it” recently? Tell us how below on our message boards.
Mary Birdsong is a comedian/actress who’s so damn busy we can’t seem to figure out where she lives. You can see her on Comedy Central’s “Reno: 911″ and on stage as the 99 Cent Whore. She’s currently shooting “Adventureland,” a new film by “Superbad” director Greg Mottola. Apparently he listened when we asked him to give more funny women work.