The first yoga class

It was 2001, I was 23 years old and I'd just been through a terrible break-up. It was awful at the time, one of those heart wrenching ordeals that would have been too long and uncut for a Romantic Comedy. No, this was a drama. One with long scenic shots that go on forever and doesn't so much have a soundtrack, just ominous tones.

A friend had gone to a studio in Redondo Beach, CA... loved the class, and thought it might be a good way to get me out of my Kafka-esque depressive coma.

... and it was. Sort of.

As I recall (ten years later) it seems like the class would have been an Ashtanga level 1. There were definitely sun salutations, and I distinctly remember looking around and trying to figure out what the heck everyone was doing. It was a moving collage of arms and legs windmilling around in a dizzying blur of strangers and sweaty palms. The teacher was walking around the room with his wicked tan and wispy white pants, calling out in a language I'd never heard playing music involving an instrument I had no idea existed. The whole thing a surreal sort of slant to it. All I knew is that my palms were slick, I was tired, sweating, confused, and most of all, I just wanted to cry. Looking back, I almost can't believe that I teach yoga myself now.