My Stumptown cold brew is just kicking in when a woman named after a flower or an herb or an IKEA shelf instructs us to bring our feet over our heads; to drop our toes to the floor. Unless of course, we have a tender back – I thankfully do not. Or if we’re on the third day of our moon cycle – probably not, but maybe? There’s a lot that goes on here that I don’t understand. Like, I’m not sure if I’m supposed feel like my collar bone is choking me out. I wonder if anyone has ever lost consciousness in this position. I wonder how many people have died from asphyxiation right here in this yoga studio.
I’ve lost track of what we’re doing. I was following my breath, my hands were interlaced, my chin was doing whatever it was supposed to be doing, but now everyone is on their feet and I’m still clamped like a mouse trap. I rise to my feet, attempt to “cartwheel” my hands into what she’s calling table top. I extend my left leg into the air attempting to thwart the laws of gravity, and I think, you know what? I’m ready to move into a neighborhood plagued by gang violence. I’m finally ready to live in a place with a liquor store on every corner and a pit bull barking in every driveway.
Sure, I’ll have to displace some unfortunate family that’s just looking to sell the same shitbox they bought eight years ago for a profit of $400,000 but that will be on my conscience. I’ll have to live with that.
But this feels right. Probably because this is what yoga is about: being present. And occasionally not being present, but having an epiphany.
Fuck. We’re moving again. The people in this room that is. Now everyone is in a position that I would call 6-year-old watching TV on the living room floor. Here it’s called cobra pose.
What do they call this pose south of the 10 and east of Crenshaw? According to my friends at the LA Times, it’s called it rigor mortis.