Sweaty Hippies

Friday night, I joined my friend Summer near her home in the country. It’s not even the ‘burbs anymore where she lives, it’s straight up country. It was a big night out in the country: First Fridays, when all the stores are open late (9pm) and all the residents are out on the street (about 13 people). And Summer’s favorite yoga teacher was hosting a special class…. An hour and a half of interpretive Vinyasa with a live DJ.

We showed up with our mats and Lululemon pants. And then embarked on 90 minutes of yoga meets interpretive dance. Warrior pose meets “make love to yourself.” Downward meets “pretend you’re crawling through primordial ooze.” It was entertaining, to say the least. And kind of strangely fun, as long as I avoided all contact with my friends, which led to inevitable giggles.

I am impressed with how much my mind has opened with regards to crazy hippy shit. After all, I grew up in Berkeley. But then my cynical side (rebellious side?) has sucked out a lot of my willingness to crawl around on all fours, wagging an imaginary tail, in front of other adults.

But I did the whole class, and I enjoyed it, except for one part: we kept shifting mats. I don’t mind other people on my yoga mat, as long as they’re not sweating. And I don’t mind sweat on my yoga mat, as long as it’s MY sweat. But when my yoga mat is drenched with OTHER PEOPLE’S SWEAT, it kind of makes me want to barf.

I think next time I’m on my way to get in touch with the spinal arch of my ancestors, I will borrow a mat from the studio. Because otherwise, it’s just gross.