Of goddesses and groin strains
Working that mojo like never before in a yoga class for lovers and others
By Sally Sheklow 08/18/2005
Stressed? Overextended? Constantly tired?
I sure was. Fighting the homophobes is exhausting. Determined to gain equal rights in my lifetime, I’d drag home from yet another rally/meeting/press conference too burned out to commit one single abomination, plunk down my leaflets, flop out in front of the TV, and lapse into a stupor until bedtime — some homosexual lifestyle.
My energetic spouse, eager for livelier company, suggested I try the new Kripalu women’s yoga class. I was spent, but my patient bride deserved a more attentive mate. Maybe yoga could actually rekindle my dormant kundalini. I owed it to my beloved to at least check it out. I peeled myself away from “Wheel of Fortune,” pulled on some raggedy sweats and trudged over to the class.
Serene flute music filled the room. A Quan Yin statue stood on a cloth-covered table. Women were already on the floor stretching. Some chatted with each other while they held one leg in the air like cats preparing to crotch bathe.
The last time I had my legs that far apart I pulled a groin muscle. Since then, stretching and working out had dropped off my militant homosexual agenda.
Even an easy yoga workout would require more pep than I had. I was jonesin’ for Pat and Vanna. Gimme some couch time. But kraal would be good for me, Wifey had coaxed, restore my vitality, bring me back to life. That was the idea, anyway.
I signed in and tossed my sneakers onto the pile of Birkenstocks, Tevas and Doc Martens. I picked up a yoga mat and a brochure about Kripalu Yoga and looked for an open spot on the floor. Kripalu, I wasn’t amused to notice, seemed awfully similar to cripple you. I sat near Quan Yin, who, I remembered, was the goddess of compassion and mercy — I needed both, out of shape as I was.
I recognized a few women, but I wasn’t up for visiting. All those gals lying around on the floor were a humbling reminder of wild parties I used to go to before I met my true love, settled down and got fatigued.
Our instructor was a buff babe in a T-shirt bearing the outstretched-winged image of Isis, the Egyptian goddess of power and rebirth — which I could also use.
“Welcome,” the teacher said. Around her neck hung the dyke-classic Jane Iris Spirit Healer pendant, another reminder of what I was doing in this class.
“Kripalu Yoga,” she explained softly, “helps us become engaged in being more alive as a human being.”
More alive — yes. A discernable pulse would be an improvement. My sweetie was tired of my being too tired. She wanted a partner who would — wink, wink — engage in being more alive. I sat on my mat and listened to the instructions and the flute music.
I had come here to increase my vitality, to infuse my life — especially my love life — with some new vim and verve. All my time and energy went to fighting for our right to marry and here I was too tired to consummate my own union.
Now I was surrounded by goddesses and a bunch of friendly (and flexible) women. It was nice to let down my activist power shield and relax. How pleasant to be among people without having to argue for equal protection under the law. How comforting. Peaceful. Somebody started to snore, totally uncool. Wait, was that me?
I opened my eyes to find everyone on all fours doing Cat and Dog Pose. I joined in, flexed and arched my pelvis in time with my breath. My mojo hadn’t worked like this in ages. Wifey would be pleased.
The instructor’s assistant came around to help everyone get into the correct position for the Mountain Posture. “Listen to your body. It knows what it can do. If you push too hard, you probably won't enjoy it."
Oh right, enjoy it. I needed that message. I’d been way too uptight to enjoy life. I’d been locked up in the struggle with no room left for pleasure.
“May you find renewal, inspiration, and refuge,” the instructor said, leading us in a breathing exercise.
I inhaled and exhaled to her slow count.
Stiffness melted away. My body glided easily into the next series of postures. In Warrior Pose, I felt strong, confident, sexy even. In the final Corpse Pose I felt amazingly exhilarated and alive—especially for a corpse.
Class ended, I hopped up, returned the mat, and found my sneakers—which I had no problem bending over to tie. Hmm, what else could I do with this kind of perkiness and flexibility? I couldn’t wait to get home and play “yoga” with my unlawfully-wedded wife.
Writer Sally Sheklow limbers up in Eugene, Oregon and welcomes comments at sally@wymprov.com.
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