Monday 11 April

# of days in yoga boot camp: 1

All I can say is: wheeeeeeeeee.

The first day of yoga boot camp was simply awesome.

I'll admit, I'm much more impressed with Bikram than I thought I'd be. From everything I've heard, I expected an arrogant smarty-pants. He walked into the room and there was raucous applause and he was wearing a very rockstar-ish outfit, black T-shirt and black pants and shiny Italian black shoes.

(Morality Monkey went haywire: Bikram wore shoes inside the yoga studio. Was this part of peace-stealing? Was it a trick, to see who would raise their hand and say, “Um, excuse me, Mr. YogaGuruMan, but you didn't take your shoes off?” Because, really, he probably forgot and all. So someone should help him out, right? And perhaps by not noticing, we were failing. Right?)

He taught in Tokyo for a long time. Then one night, he was summoned, put into a limo, driven to the airport, and flown to Hawaii. Richard Nixon was laid up with phlebitis and he fixed Nixon.

Bikram also insists on staying for the group getting-to-know-you thing. Which, again, surprises me. Isn't he too busy being a celebrity-fixing bendy yoga dude to sit on the floor and listen to everyone's schpiel? Doesn't Kate Hudson need another class from him?

And then I kept wondering: what's my schpiel?

There were astonishing stories. At least two addicts who got clean doing yoga. One gal had her heart rupture, just sitting there, innocent as a lamb, poof, an artery in her heart just tears. After the heart surgery, she started doing yoga. Another gal, big brown eyes and pigtails, she has fairly advanced scoliosis. When she started doing Bikram yoga six months ago, she could only put her hands on her knees in the hands-to-feet posture.

Freckly redhead from New York City, Amy. Does standup. Seems warm and nice, but also slightly shell-shocked. Almost like she was on a stage around midnight, doing her schtick and then the ceiling opened and above was a helicopter. The helicopter pilot dropped a loop around her waist, plucked her from a smoky smelly bar, and dropped her here, in yoga boot camp.

Another New Yorker-a nice warm man named Charlie. He identified himself as a former New York City firefighter. He paused and you could feel the entire group inhale for him. And then he said, “This yoga has finally allowed me to forgive.” And he got quite teary and sat down and the room felt a little somber and healing-ish for a bit after that.

Well, so much for my tragicomic, “I thought my thighs were too blobby and then, speaking of lumps!, found a few in my breast and I actually don't like yoga but then it got me through the breast cancer scare, and here I am.” How lame is that? Compared to drug addiction and hearts popping and rescuing charred people on September 11-what's a little cellulite, you know? I said it simply. I am a writer from Seattle.

Suddenly-it is time for our first yoga class taught by Bikram himself. I put myself in the front, my favorite place to be. Right snug up against the teaching podium. I feel pretty good about this choice. It feels like home. Plus which, since Bikram doesn't do personal corrections, there's no sense in hiding in the back row where you can't see anything.

Again, the rockstar entry. He walks in. Actually, more like he whisks into the room. He's wearing only a black Speedo and a sparkly watch. He stops by my side of the podium and puts his hair up in a topknot and then puts on a headband. This small little ritual endears him to me somehow. Most of us have some kind of pre-yoga class hair ritual-why shouldn't he?

Then the Madonna-style headset microphone comes on and he says, “Check check. One two three. Okay. Let's get started. Welcome to the Bikram torture chamber.”

We slightly snicker, as a group. Suddenly, I feel awfully gassy and wonder if first row was a good choice for the first day.

In the middle of the first breathing exercise, at the very tippy top of our inhale, Bikram falls off the podium. Actually crashes on his left shoulder, almost smooshes the gal in front of the podium. Like a flash, I hear Craig's warning: Bikram will do anything to steal our peace. I refuse to fall for his bag of tricks this early, first breathing, first class, first day. I try to slyly look to my right but I don't think subtlety is a strong suit of mine.









We did exhale as a group but then for about ten or seventy seconds we are all keeping our chin back on our exhale, I sense we collectively are thinking, “Nope, no peace theft from this yogi, even if I turn blue waiting for the next inhale.”

The silence of our group exhale is broken by yelps and cursing; Bikram is hopping around, rubbing his elbow, face all squished up pruney in what appears to be genuine pain. I feel for him but I also still wonder if this is his usual first day schtick.

He's quite funny, and I think that everyone should laugh during class-you stretch different muscles, plus which, you can't hold your breath when you are cracking up at a joke.

So then, there I am in the first of the balancing series-Standing Head to Knee. I've never kicked out on the first set. I'm just not that type of person-that's what the bendy gumby people are for. Me, I'm happy in the first part of the posture. My standing leg seems pretty wobbly, it doesn't seem ready. I'm also a little nervous about having taken off nine days from practicing.

He booms my name into the microphone and suddenly I, a nonshy person, feel the desire to change colors, like those fish that blend with the coral when the shark is coming. I'd love to be a tawny carpet color right about now.

“Hello Miss Pink.”

As per the no-peace-stealing instructions, I'm staring intently at my standing leg kneecap in the mirror. Bikram snaps his fingers in front of my face; I nearly fall straight over, mostly from the shock of my little kneecap trance being interrupted.

“Miss Pink, lock your knee. No. More. Lock your knee. Good. Now. Kick out.”

I almost blurt out, “No thanks, that isn't my thing, the kicking out.” Instead, I look over at him, because surely there are other Miss Pinks in the room that can actually kick out and that look like the type that kicks out.

“What da hell Miss Pink? Do you wait for everything to be perfect in your life?”

Hmm. What an excellent question. Do I wait? I think I do. I do wait. I really do-wow. A life revelation right here, right now, 30 minutes into the first class ever. He's not just a guru-he is a god!

“Misssss Piiiink. Hello. Kick out! Did you forget?”

I did forget. Am I that patently obvious-or does he read minds as well?

I have a quick flash back to my concerns about authority issues and that pledge I made to myself about never looking into his eyes.

It isn't just his eyes. It is his voice. He uses his voice very, very well. He started out singsongy, the same way you'd sing song “where are you?” when playing a game of hide-and-seek. He almost sounded sweet and a little mischievous.

Just when he's lured me into his trap, the words “kick out” sound like they are coming from a really really vengeful/bordering-on-homicidal drill sergeant.

I kick out. And I feel like a thoroughbred. I've been not-the-kicking-out-type for at least a year and it is almost as though my body has been waiting for this exact moment.

My extending leg goes exactly parallel to the floor, I'm locked out, knees snapped into place, both legs forming an upside-down 90-degree angle. Good golly! This has never happened before! Granted, I've kicked out about seven times in the past year (saving it for special occasions, I suppose)-but never like this. I feel like Cinderella, only without the shoes and the pouffy dress.

I'm in this happy zen place and I hear Bikram continue to give me instructions.

“Good. Very good Miss Pink. Now. Bend your elbows down. Down Miss Pink.”

I shouldn't admit this, but: I ignored him. I knew he meant well, but I really needed to breathe and celebrate my most awesome kicking out moment. I didn't want to attempt something new and fancy and then fail and then return to feeling like a plump wanna-be. Kicking out, I felt like Homecoming Queen.

Next up, Standing Bow Pulling Pose.

Now, this posture has frustrated me in so many ways, almost like it presents to me new flavors of annoyance.

You start out balancing on one leg, then you reach around behind you and pick your right foot up in your right hand. Then you kick and supposedly your foot comes up over your head.

When I first started doing yoga, I was so anxious to blend in and look like I knew what I was doing, that I pulled on my big toe, essentially yanking my foot over my head. Then Frankie gently instructed me to think more about kicking into my hand, and then, damnit, my foot never went over my head again for about half an eternity.

Now Bikram's staring at me, and I'm thinking the first row, maybe not so much, this choice. What was I thinking? Little Miss Authority Figure Issues (years reigning: 1969-1975, 79, 80, 82, 83, 86-94) puts herself in the front row to blend? Jeesh.

(Note to self: learn better blending skills.)

He'll see that my foot doesn't go over my head and then the jig will be up. Chubby girl, row one, round like a Mentos, please take your mat and go home.

I kick like a wild mule, I don't want to go home. Oh my gosh, my toes are up over the top of my head.

“You did good Miss Pink. Now. Lock your damn knee.”

The rest of class was pretty much a blur.

Also, great news. The room was not as wicked hot as I feared. It was super humid and drippy, but not nostril-hairs-on-fire hot.

I have vowed that I will not lie out. And I will never, ever leave the room.

(Well, if I'm carried out on a stretcher, that's my exception to the never-leave rule.)

But the drippiness made me feel really thirsty. I think I drank a little too much water (rank amateur mistake), so I felt pretty pukey when upside down. But, even with bile in my throat and puddles of sweat in my ears, I did not leave the room, I didn't lie down and, most importantly, I did not ack on famous Bikram.

I'm so blessed to have been trained by such a good studio. There were all kinds of moaning and puking and leaving the room and bawling. At least four crying yogis by my count. Frankie and Laura were right-the nine days off was perfect. I felt like a frisky pony, prancing on my mat, waiting for the starting bell of each posture.

We had a dinner break and then some getting-to-know-you people to finish. Bikram sat in a very comfy chair with an orange and pink towel and then women rotated brushing his hair and rubbing his now-injured elbow.

He was so pleased with our progress on our first day that he let us go home early.

Got a load of laundry done.