Yoga in L.A.

...lived up to almost every L.A. stereotype I have. The teacher's name was Govindas, but he was white. He had dreads, he wore linen, and his wife was a total babe. But I'll get to the wife later. Let me back up.

Memorial Day weekend, and I thought it would be grand to brave SoCal traffic to visit Dr. J in L.A. Dr. J and I have known each other since high school, technically, but we've known each other best since our senior year of college, when we shared an apartment with three other women and one man. (If you add that up, that's five women and one man. Somehow, the man survived.) That living arrangement remains to this day my favorite living arrangement, and I've been lucky to have several rockin' roommates.

But I digress. Dr. J is graduating from med school on Friday and I wanted to hang with her before she heads back east to start her residency. Because I am obsessed with health (read: my figure), I readily accepted her invitation to do some yoga. She took me to a studio in Santa Monica where anyone can attend because classes are pay-as-you-go. Even better, payments are only suggested donations, so cash-strapped students like us can practice without having to go hungry.

When we walked in, I was hit by the smell of incense and the sound of live music. The teacher and his wife were sitting up front, playing instruments that I have seen played only by Hare Krishnas. I thought to myself, ah, L.A.

We started with some chants. Like, Om. We weren't supposed to keep pitch, but I noticed that most people did. I deliberately chanted out of key. It reminded me of choir rehearsals when SEP would tell us all to pick a pitch and then to listen to each other to create harmony. (I put that part in for my Sis and the Groom.) Dr. J did not chant. She was too focused on one of the other students in the class, Rudy, because she is in love with him and his rippling muscles.

Myself, when I wasn't trying to bend my body in unnatural ways, I was too focused on Mrs. Govindas, the teacher's wife. She was extraordinarily good - twisting and turning and balancing like it was the easiest thing ever. I also noticed she was a total babe - fantastic body, good hair. I thought it odd that even a supposedly "enlightened" yogi as herself still would have to demonstrate that she was better than everybody else in the room. Really, her poses were unnecessary. At the end of class, she made sure to kiss the Mr. in front of everybody. (Dr. J didn't notice - still staring at Rudy.) I just wiped the sweat from my face and got ready to leave. It puzzled me, why this woman took this relatively easy class when it was obviously beneath her. Was she trying to define her turf, or did she just really love yoga? Or am I just paranoid? (Likely.)

Dr. J and I talked about it briefly over brunch, not because she had paid any attention to this but because we were cut off by not one but two parties in line for a table. She said she wouldn't miss Angelenos' self-superiority, and I brought up Mrs. Govindas. She just shrugged. I guess there wasn't much else we could do.

After brunch, we sat in a park to read. Next to us, a father played catch with his son, except the son wasn't so great on the catch. The ball hit me in the arm, and the son said flatly to his father, "You have to go get it." The embarrassed dad apologized, retrieved the ball, and then led his son to their car so they escape any further potential torts claims. Ah, L.A.

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P.S. Dr. J's cat, Rudo, below. Notice that "Rudo" is suspiciously close to "Rudy." Hm.