The noisy one

Lately, the whole yoga experience thing has been making sense.  For the most case, my thoughts don't distract me from the stretch and my breathing provides all the benefits of hyperventilating without the blacking out and hitting your head on the toilet bowl part.  Physically, it's really loosened up my back and legs which has helped with my running and general well-being, but yoga has also played a pretty big part in helping me come back to center a bit.  The idea that the practice is a mediation to quiet minds does sound hokey, but, what can I say, it quiets my mind.

I have a ritual when I go to yoga.  If Michelle doesn't go with me, I put on some noise canceling headphones and find a song on my iPod that will soundtrack a leisurely walk up.  Editor's note: the best music changes the way you walk.  As I walk the half mile to the studio, I breathe deeply through my nose, exhaling through my mouth.  By the time I reach my destination, I am quite relaxed and because I've walked much slower than my usual clip, I'm not too hot either.

Once inside and with fifteen or twenty minutes before class begins, I check-in, dump my stuff and set up in my usual spot.  I cross my legs and slowly bending over them, I make my way to the floor where I will hold that pose until it is no longer comfortable.  My breathing is consistent and I go into an almost twilight state.  It's great.

Because the instructor hasn't turned the music on yet, I become vaguely aware of squeaky tires turning into a parking spot.  In the distance, where that car turned in, I hear a door open and slam loudly shut.  I begin to hear other noises: the sound other classmates around me quietly shifting and breathing.  From the car, I hear a voice speaking animatedly on the phone, laughing like a starling.  My eyes open and look down the grooved channels those little tabs that cover my mat make.  "OK, I have to go.  Yoga is starting soon," the voice states.

"I said, 'yoga is starting.  I have to go'" it repeats in an elevated call.

The blurry edges of my sight come back into focus, I can feel the warmth of that second floor space.  The car's alarm system activates with an abrasive honk eschewing away all lingering elements of tranquility.  I exhale and, rolling my neck, return to a sitting position.  My eyes shut again and the long, deep inhalations through my nose begin.  The sensation of sinking into the floor comes creeping back and I feel myself being lowered.

Then the front door slams shut, vibrating the room.  Loud footsteps crash up the steps.  My eyes open again and I am no longer in my head and body.  I look around the room to see the others in various positions, some laying flat, some sitting, some bending.  In the lobby, the clamorous voice speaks.  "I think I have three classes left on my Groupon.  It might only be two, but I think it is three.  Is it three?  It might be two.  It's three?  OK.  Is that three after today or will it be only two after today?  OK.  Should I sign in?  Maybe I should renew now.  How much is the ten class package?  OK, I'll sign up.  Oh wait, I left my purse in my car.  Hahaha.  Maybe I should get it now.  Can I do it after class?  Maybe I'll just do that.  Is that alright?  It is?  OK, hahahaha.  Should I go in now?  OK.  Thanks."

My hearing has been retuned.  It is no longer shut off, so that the only sounds I am aware of is the steady cadence of my breathing, but rather, it has become hyper-attuned to any noise the voice makes.  I hear the squeak of the rubber of the flip-flop's soles against the linoleum tile floor.  Each footfall sends a concussive thump which jars me.  The door to the studio opens slowly as she is trying to be quiet in the best way she knows how.  The door creaks and each squeak results in a high pitched amplified "pop."  I am aware of her stepping into the room, letting the door thunderously clap shut.

The voice tromps past me and the displaced air creates small waves in my clothes and hair.  "OK," the voice stage whispers.  Her phone beep, beep, beeps as she locates the vibrate function.  The keys jangle as they are dropped to the floor and, again, she passes me temporarily readjusting those waves until, on the way back to her spot, she stirs the air again.  "OK," the whisper repeats.

With a loud SNAP, she unfurls her mat and will spend the next interminable amount of time smoothing it out.  She dramatically sighs as she lays down for three seconds before she sits up to readjust her mat.  "Sorry," the voice hisses, apologizing for stepping on her neighbor.  "Is this OK, because I can move if you want."

"It's fine."

"You sure?  Because I can move over a bit."

"It's.  Fine."

"OK, just let me know if you want me to move."

....

"Just let me know if you want me to move."

"....I will..."

"OK."

I look at the stage and try to quell the bombing campaign of my thoughts:  "Should I run to the grocery, when will the library renovation be completed, my hamstrings are tight from that jog, what should I make for dinner, 'L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N./You have more than money and cents my friend/you've got heart and you're going your own way,' Man, that song's been stuck in my head for weeks."

The night is saved when the instructor walks in and starts the night's proceedings.  And even though the voice's attempts to whisper while getting adjustments fall laughably short of that word's true definition and even though her phone will vibrate six times during those eighty minutes, I am able to find my breath and find a way to float between the stretching sensations of my muscles and connective tissue.

Welcome

First off, welcome to Is That a Banana In Your Spandex (ITaBIYS).  Essentially, the inspiration for this blog was from observing my fellow attendees in a yoga class I am taking.  For the sake of anonymity, it will remain nameless.  In the nearly two years I have been taking this class, I've noticed certain archetypes, people who sort of do the same sorts of things, act in similar manners, dress alike, but are not, as far as I can tell, the same person.  This observation has led to internal speculation as to whether or not these people can be found in every yoga course across this great nation of ours.

This thought led me to my good friend Christy.  She's taking a Jazzercize class in leafy suburb of Atlanta which is where she lives, she doesn't drive down from Cincinnati on a weekly basis.  Christy is a noticer too, so I suspected that she might be noticing the same sort of thing in her environment.  I asked, she thought it sounded good and, within a couple minutes, she came up with the title of the blog.

As with all things, this will develop with each entry with Christy and myself writing about the people we see.  If you're reading this and have an idea, we'd also welcome suggestions or even a written entry which naturally will be credited to the person who wrote it.  Just remember, we're trying to avoid writing about one person you see doing odd things.  Write about sociological trends you witness instead.  It doesn't have to be a class, just some social gathering scenario would work (ie: buses, bars/restaurants, ballgames, etc.)