Stretch

As the practice continued, my body insulted me in many different ways.  I couldn't touch my toes.  Bending forward over my knees, I caught the faint and unpleasant whiff of my own ass. I hopped and wobbled and stumbled with all the grace of a wounded animal charging through the brush.

And so goes the first ever yoga class Neil Pollack finally agreed to attend after suffering yet another back spasm.  His yoga journey is documented in his hilarious book, Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude.  

Like his first yoga teacher:

She explained the simplest poses in very clear language, keeping the pace slow and gentle; she was the perfect teacher for beginners.  I was kind of enjoying myself; I'd expected poses with flouncy names, like laughing daisy, or bejeweled vagina, or the infamous happy baby that I'd heard about.  Instead, I got masculine ones like warrior and cobra, household objects such as chair and plank and a variety of ordinary-sounding shapes and animals.  Nothing made me blush or shrink into myself with embarrassment.  

On doing yoga in a gym rather than a yoga studio:

Our setup at Lance Armstrong 24-Hour Fitness didn't match any form of the yogic ideal.  We practiced above the basketball court and next to the spinning center, so we often had to compete with full-volume music screaming "DO YOU BELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER LOVE? AFTER LOVE? AFTER LOVE?" This message could, technically, be interpreted as yoga-relevant, but not on repeat for fifty minutes.

There's more.  Lots more.  Like a serious flatulence problem; yelling "bullshit" in the middle of class after being lectured by a vegan, jivamukti-trained instructor, attending a Bikram sponsored yoga competition and his own quest to become a yoga teacher.  

If you love yoga or humor books or if you've simply been interested in a masculine perspective on the practice - pick up a copy.   At it's core it's a wonderful memoir of what happens when you give in to the power of yoga and how it can transform your life if you let it.