“How do you know all this?” Imani asked her.
“The old-fashioned way: Internet. I subscribe to about three dozen websites where they review studios and update classes and post gossip about teachers. Pictures, too, in case that’s your thing. And Twitter has been amazing. Every afternoon at five I get a tweet about the best classes and workshops going on the next day. Everyone fights for a spot, so you have to register in advance or try to bribe your way in. It’s worse than getting tickets for concerts.”
It doesn’t sound very om shanti to Imani, but she’s the novice here and, yoga or not, it’s still L.A.
“Can’t you just use your name?” Imani asks. “That ought to be enough to get you in.”
“Are you kidding? Everyone goes. If I won an Oscar, maybe I’d get moved up the list. Anyway, it’s embarrassing using my name like that. My screen name on these sites is ‘yoga roommate, ’ which I thought was kind of clever.”
“Cute.”
Becky is officially between projects and trying to get in shape for a movie that starts shooting in a few weeks. She has to do a sex scene and there’s nudity involved, so she wants to be in perfect shape.
“No body double?” Imani asks.
“Of course there’s a body double. That’s in all my contracts. But I don’t want anyone on the set to think I’m using one because I’m out of shape. I actually have to look better than the double to save face, so it would be easier if I just did the scene myself.”
Imani feels lucky nudity was never an option on network TV. If yoga helps Imani get Becky’s thighs and obliques, she’s willing to put up with gazing off into infinity for a couple of seconds at the beginning of class and pretending she’s visualizing world peace. At first she thought Becky was calling her because she happened to be available (most of Becky’s friends work nonstop) or because she felt bad for her. But it’s brought them a lot closer, and now she feels like a real friend.
The names of the places are what Imani loves the most. Yoga Bind, Yoga Bend, Yoga Hop, Yoga House. A few dozen clever uses of “mat” and “dog” and “down” and endless plays on branches and trees and limbs. A lot of dharma and karma. The names remind her of hair salons and how they’re always coming up with some new, nearly witty pun on hair, just when you thought they’d all been used up.
This Tuesday, Becky calls Imani at 8:00 a.m. and tells her she’s texting her the address of a studio in Santa Monica and she expects to see her there at eleven o’clock.
“Come on, Becky,” Imani says. “Can’t you find something a little closer?”
“Oh, my God, girl. This is Taylor Kendall.”
“I’m waiting to be impressed.”
“Honey, I was online at the dot of midnight when they opened the website to reserve places in his class. I got the last two spots, and according to my clock, it was twelve oh two. He is the best yoga teacher in the country. I mean, he trained with . . .”
This comment spurs another list of names Imani has never heard of, some of them unpronounceable ones with an Indian inflection, others those weirdly androgynous, soap opera names so common among yoga teachers, she’s discovering. Campbell Dylan. Chrysler Marks. Rand Bryce. And people criticize black women for the Africanish names they give their kids! (Imani was her manager’s choice; her mother had gone for Loretta, a fact not even Becky knows.)
What Imani is also discovering is that there are about six hundred teachers in the country who are, unquestionably, the best. Funny how they all happen to be gorgeous.
But, long ride or not, Imani agrees to meet her. She feels as if bumping into Becky in the cupcake bakery was fate. She’s had more fun over the past few weeks with Becky than she’s had since . . . well, for a long time. It’s all the driving around to parts of the city she’s never been to before, the hopping and jumping that she’s getting quite good at, even the fun new clothes that make her feel sexy and athletic. She’s always been fit, but she’s never felt athletic before. There’s always a moment in these classes when she finds herself rolling her eyes (“Take a few deep, poignant breaths and direct them toward that little storage space in your body where you keep your sadness”), but she does it anyway. And no matter how silly it sounds, it’s having some kind of effect. She doesn’t believe for one second that twisting her spine is helping to “wring out toxins” or whatever it’s supposed to be doing, but it is true that she’s started to feel as if a dark mood is being wrung out of her. Maybe she’s emptying out her “storage space.” Glenn has noticed a difference, too.
For months after the miscarriage, she couldn’t stand having him touch her. She felt betrayed by her body and detached from it, as if it had rejected her baby. She’d never felt quite so disconnected from herself. When she and Glenn started having sex again, she’d pretty much gone through the motions to please him. He was so good to her and always had been. If he knew she was using her acting skills more than her passion, he never said anything. But for the past couple of weeks, she’s felt connected again and in control. All that balancing on one leg has made her believe that she’s capable of mastering her stability, physically and in other ways, too. When Glenn put his arms around her a couple of nights ago, she felt as if she was responding in a way she hadn’t in far too long.
She goes to her closet and puts on a gray tank top edged in yellow and made out of a clingy material that absorbs sweat like a dream. Best of all, the deep V shows off her cleavage without looking as if that’s the point. How’d that happen? She tries on a few different pants (she’s been back to the store Becky took her to five times!) and goes with a pair of black crops. She can unzip them from the cuffs and show off her calves. Even the name of the company, which she initially found too cute for words, has begun to appeal to her. Lululemon. It’s kind of bright and whimsical, and in addition to everything else, that’s usually how she feels when she puts the clothes on.
The yoga studio is in a big white building a couple of blocks from the beach, and at 11:15 when Imani gets there, there’s a line around the corner. It’s kind of the way it used to be going to movie theaters in Texas when she was growing up, back when people went to movies. On top of that, there’s a line of paparazzi in the street, snapping pictures. It almost feels like a premiere. Goddamned bunch of vultures, but on the other hand, she does love the way she looks in this outfit, and she slings her yoga bag over her shoulder and does a little hop up to the sidewalk.
Becky’s near the front of the line, chatting with Sue Holland, child star turned alcoholic turned beloved teen idol turned serious actress, and Faith, one of the other leads from Roommates. They all greet with big, sisterly hugs, the unmistakable waiting-for-the-doors-to-open energy in the air. Imani can hear the paparazzi snapping pictures. “Imani, over here! Becky, how’s it going?” Her manager will be thrilled if these photos show up on the Internet. She knows she’s looking gorgeous.
“You didn’t tell me Johnny Depp was teaching,” Imani says, nodding toward the long line.
“I took a workshop with Taylor in Kauai,” Sue says, “and he kicked my ass!”
This starts a competition between Becky and Sue about who has taken the most difficult and exhausting classes and workshops and how close to passing out each came how many times. Imani thought the whole point of yoga was a lack of competition, but she’s definitely seen a lot of that over the last few weeks. She’s been surprisingly good at rising above it, though. Although come to think of it, maybe being a purist about not competing is just another form of competition.
“I kind of feel as if we’re dinosaurs,” Becky’s costar says, “and these guys are the real celebrities.”
Someone in the line behind them says, “On Taylor’s website, he said his agent is negotiating for a workshop in the Staples Center.”
“Agent?” Imani says. “Really?”
“It’s a big thing now,” Becky says. “They can negotiate amazing contracts with studios and for workshops at retreats all over the world. I was talking with Yram Tild a few
months ago—”
“Yram?!” Sue screams. “She is incredible. I’ve been trying to get into one of her workshops for months. You know her?”
“A little. Anyway, she said her agent got it in her contracts she has to fly first class, which makes sense because she has to start teaching as soon as she lands. And a lot of teachers get TV and video deals so—”
“I cannot believe you actually talked to Yram!” Sue says.
Imani has a vague sense that once upon a time, fitness teachers crowed about knowing movie and TV stars as a way to make themselves seem more important. Crazy world.
“The really cool thing,” Becky says, “is that I got three adjustments last workshop!”
“From Yram?” Sue shrieks. “Oh, my God!”
“How are you spelling that?” Imani asks.
“Y-r-a-m,” says Sue. “She’s so ethereal and gorgeous, it’s unreal. She’s like a magic princess. She has American parents, but she was raised at a monastery in the Himalayas by monks who gave her her name and training.”
Imani is tempted to point out that “Yram” is “Mary” spelled backward but doesn’t want to burst anyone’s bubble. “I’d love to take her class,” she says, hoping it sounds convincing.
The inside of the studio is unexpectedly gorgeous, a lot of rose-colored wood and ivory walls. The room itself is heated, nearly hot, and there’s a lot of polite but tense jostling for position. Imani’s noticed this look people get when they’re claiming their territory with their mats. They plant their equipment with focused intensity, no looking side to side, no acknowledging anyone else’s presence even though the whole point of the intensity seems to be to keep everyone else away from them. They ought to just post a sign.
But today there are so many people, the mats are nearly on top of each other and half the people are sitting upright with their legs folded in lotus, looking as if they’ll explode if anyone suggests they move. Someone does. A perky little woman in a unitard.
“Sorry, folks, but I’m going to have to ask everyone to reposition a little. We have thirty more people coming in. There’s plenty of room in here if we line up properly. We’ll start in the left-hand corner and skootch everyone together.”
“I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” Becky whispers. “I’m so glad I took a hit of pot before I got in line.”
When Taylor Kendall comes into the room, there’s a round of applause and the kind of cheers that Mick Jagger would envy. He’s shirtless and wearing a pair of loose cotton drawstring pants that reveal a provocative hint of butt cleavage. He’s not tall, and he’s definitely not a bodybuilder, but there’s something undeniably sexy about his lean, perfectly proportioned torso and his confident ballet dancer’s strut, back arched and chest thrust out, as if he’s showing off a tattoo somewhere above his nipple. His arms are topographical maps of musculature and the circulatory system.
“Okay, folks. There are eighty-six people in this room. But do you know how many are on the wait list? One hundred and twenty-five. And how many were turned away completely? At least two hundred more.”
Inexplicably, this provokes another round of applause.
“So I hope you’re going to make good use of your time here and the gift of having gotten in.” This is the first time Imani has paid three hundred dollars for a gift. “You ready to begin?”
More applause, and this time Imani joins in—Taylor’s wandering the room and is now right next to her.
“Okay, before we start, I want to tell you one thing. I know I look like a big dummy, okay. But I am not as stupid as I look, okay?”
There’s a roar of laughter and applause, but in fact, Imani is relieved by the comment. You wouldn’t mistake him for a brain surgeon.
“I know a lot of you came here today because someone said to you, ‘You have to go out to Santa Monica and take this class. This guy is a pretty good teacher.’ Am I right?”
A lot of heads start bobbing. He lays a hand on Imani’s shoulder. “Am I right, girlfriend?”
For the record, Imani wants to say, not every black woman in America wants to be called “girlfriend,” especially by some scrawny white guy she’s never met before.
Instead she says, maybe a little too loudly, “Yeah, you right, girlfriend.”
Imani gets a big laugh, and he moves away from her quickly.
“The important thing to remember is that the class is not about me. It’s about you. Okay? It doesn’t matter how many people were trying to get in for my class today. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been on Larry King Live. (Three, okay?) It doesn’t matter that I’ve been on the Today show and that People magazine voted me ‘Sexiest whatever.’ Who cares? Maybe you heard that I sold more DVDs on QVC than any other yoga teacher. Ever! Big effing deal. It’s all about you. This class is only as good as you make it for yourself. And hey, you can buy the DVDs out front after the class anyway! I’m going to be signing them for an extra twenty-five dollars, three percent of which will go to the Taylor Kendall Foundation.”
Maybe she’s imagining it, but Imani could swear he’s giving her a cold, hard stare. He looks away and rubs his hands together.
“Are you ready? ” he shouts. “I said, are you ready? Okay, that’s more like it. I’m going to make you wet today. I’m going to stretch you open, and we’re going to go deep. You’re gonna need to make noise, so make some noise. Let go and let it out. Let’s go! Are you ready? Are you ready? Awesome. Now, everybody sit back down for a minute while I do a demonstration.”
By the middle of the class, Imani is indeed wet. Soaking, in fact, with sweat dripping down her face and even off of her fingertips. The fact that she’s sweating as much as she is makes her care a little less about the people on all sides of her who are dripping onto their own mats and, when they stagger their bodies and extend their arms, onto hers as well. Taylor has long curly hair that comes down past his shoulders. He started off class with it in a ponytail, and in the past fifty minutes, he’s had it up in a clip, wound into a goofy little topknot, and flowing freely around his shoulders. Imani wants to dismiss him as one more annoying narcissist, but he’s a great showman, and at least to some extent, this is show biz.
The students are mostly thin women in their twenties who’ve somehow or other perfected the skill of silently drawing attention to themselves while looking as if they’re completely absorbed in what they’re doing. The men mostly bear a striking resemblance to Taylor, same types of bodies from what she can see, and either long-haired or completely bald.
While Taylor has given Becky two adjustments already (funny how you catch on to this kind of thing quickly) and one to Sue, he hasn’t so much as touched Imani since their little exchange before class began.
Unfortunately, that’s about to change.
As far as Imani can tell, he’s putting the class through the same paces she’s been put through in almost every class Becky has taken her to. The big innovation is that he’s renamed every pose in a way that emphasizes parts of the anatomy. Not “down dog” (“too negative and demeaning”) but “up butt.” Not “child’s pose” (“children go into a million poses every hour”) but “knees spread.” Not “plow,” the pose they’re in now, but “crotch in face pose.”
“Drop your knees on either side of your ears and get your junk closer to your face,” he says. “You’re sweaty, you’re loose, here’s your chance.”
Imani doesn’t want a chance. Her back is starting to hurt and the combination of the heat, the sweat, and the imagery Taylor is using is beginning to make her feel a little ill. She stays in plow, legs straight. Plenty deep for her.
That’s when he comes over to her and kneels on her mat with the front of his body pressed against her back and his face practically between her legs. This feels like the closest she’s come to cheating on Glenn since she stopped doing love scenes on X.C.I.A.
“Lower the knees,” he says.
She shakes her head, too contorted to say anything. Plus he’s looking at
her with more hostility in his gaze. Let him. She’s not budging. He takes his hands and puts them on the backs of her thighs and applies pressure. When she doesn’t move, he gives a little push.
That’s when Imani feels something pop in her lower back.
Lee’s Pose of the Month: April
Marichyasana
I’ve chosen marichyasana as pose of the month because, like all spinal twists, it’s detoxifying. And because there are a million variations on this one, there’s a version to suit every need. And let’s face it, who among us doesn’t need a little dextoxification every once in a while?
If you’re trying to manage a chemical addiction, this pose can help the liver and the spleen wash out all poisons you’ve built up in your system, making it look like an untended litter box.
But drugs and alcohol are not the only things we need to detox from. There are relationships that leave us so full of emotional and spiritual poison we need to purify on the deep level we get from really twisting and squeezing them out of our spines. (Kind of like the way we sometimes wanted to “wring someone’s neck,” back before doing yoga, when we still dabbled in violent metaphors.)
And sometimes we need to wring out whatever self-destructive patterns of behavior are making it impossible for us to accept that we do deserve a good relationship or a steady job or just a plain old break every once in a while.
But here’s the thing about twisting and detoxing—it isn’t as much about wringing out as it is about lifting up. Your head, your heart, your spirit. Because you can’t get into marichyasana, or any of the twisting poses, unless you have your chest lifted and your heart open and are ready to move into it.
And believe me, you can’t start clearing all that emotional and spiritual litter out of your life unless you’re first ready to hold your head high and open your heart and lift yourself out of the old patterns and the rehearsed reactions and expectations of failure.
Lift, open, twist. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. Don’t overthink it. Just do it. Don’t get bent out of shape.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 11
