Yoga is part of my life and has been for many years. One of my favorite aspects of the practice is the music. I like to listen to music that is more instrumental and without lyrics preferring Krishna Das over Katy Perry. If I start to sing along, my brain takes me back to where I was when I heard the song, who I was with, what we were doing, what I was wearing, what I was eating, how old I was, who my friends were, who I didn’t like, which boyfriend broke my heart, how much I weighed, what my hair looked like…you get my drift? I get lost in my thoughts and forget about the practice. Which is why I don’t like to hear anything remotely contemporary in a yoga class.
On Wednesday, I was half way through an intense yoga class with a teacher who plays a wide variety of music in his class. You can image my surprise when I heard the words mother fucker float or rather sear through the room! I was really into a groove with my practice, moving well, sweating like crazy and finally in my yoga zone. And all of a sudden, there they were. Mother fucker. Of course, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of my yoga zone.
Getting into my Yoga Zone
I looked at the other yogis in the room to see if they were as shocked as I was. Some were. The teacher didn’t appear to be too rattled that the song was playing as I assumed he wasn’t aware that it was in the playlist. Needless to say, my practice took a different turn at least mentally.
Here is a quick script of my thoughts. ”Did I here that right? Was that mother fucker? Yes, that’s what he said. Is he (the teacher) going to switch songs because this is totally not a yoga class song? How many times is this guy going to say mother fucker in one song? This is one mother fucking hard pose. If this mother fucker isn’t going to change the song, then he could change this mother fucking pose. My legs are fucking killing me! This is one crazy ass way to end my mother fucking yoga class. So much for om shanti, mother fucker…this is just fucked up!”
And then I started giggling. Really? Not only was I bombarded with mofo’s, but now I
was giggling like a school girl. The song finally ended – THANK GOD! And my giggles subsided and I managed to finish the class. Sivasana was as pleasant as it could be as Adele’s version of ”I Can’t Make You Love Me” played in the room. And there again, I was back in my head thinking about the first time I heard that song and how sad it makes me feel. I thought, well isn’t this just a mother fucking perfect way to end my mother fucking yoga class?
Namaste’ my friends. May all of your yoga experiences be free of all mother fuckers.