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Morning brought another cloudy day in what was supposed to be Paradise. Really? Another one? Zung and I stopped by the boy’s room and, wonder of wonders, Patrick was up and joined us for breakfast at the buffet. They have a piano player every morning, which was a nice touch.
We ate breakfast. Zung got an omelet and was coming to the conclusion that they weren’t very good. He so looks forward to his vacation omelets. I was sad that he wasn’t enjoying them as much as he usually does. The service was fine. The food was okay. We went back to our rooms and Patrick decided that he had gotten up too early and now needed a nap. Zung was going to go out to the beach, since it wasn’t raining, just cloudy.
Me? I was going to go to yoga at the spa.
They have yoga every morning at ERC at 9:30. I started taking yoga a few weeks ago at Lifetime Fitness and I loved it. I hadn’t done yoga since high school. I had done some Pilates classes about a year ago. Hated ’em. But LOVED yoga. My yoga teacher at home encouraged a “do what you can ” philosophy. It was a beginners class and I’d been rather pleased with my abilities.
Until I met the yoga tyrant.
(It took me a while to decide what to call him. Yoga nazi was the first thing that came to mind. But, that is a really offensive term and should be reserved for really offensive people. The yoga tyrant was not offensive. But honey, this was not your relaxing resort yoga).
The yoga classes were either at the spa or on the beach. Yoga was at the spa this morning.
I found the spa (it’s not hard to see it, as it is a rather distinctive, large, round building. However, it’s a little hard to get to). There were other people waiting. The class ended up having about eight people.
This tall, Amazon-looking man with the body of a god, shows up. He was hot. Oh, yea. This was gonna be good. Had things played out differently I would be referring to him as the yoga hottie.
He brought towels, laid them out on the cement and ordered us to kneel on them. On the freakin’ cement? Yes, ma’am. His deep voice rang out with the order of something most of us couldn’t understand. (He was Chilean and had a heavy Spanish accent.)
One woman did understand and assumed the position. The rest of us looked at her and got the idea. We all posed like what someone thought of as a child. (Child’s pose).
Okay, I can do this.
That’s what they do. They start you out with something easy to get your confidence up and let your guard down. Then they knock you down. This guy was like a drill Sargent. Literally.
He barked out orders for poses, constantly reminding us to,”Oxygenate!”
He got right up to my face and said “I can hear you!” But what he meant was that he couldn’t hear me…breath. That was probably because I was holding my breath. Afraid if I breathed, I would fall over. He repeatedly came up to me and ordered me to “Lock leg!” Then he would put his manly hands on said leg and run them up said leg to lock it. At one point he got me into the requested position, balancing on one leg, other leg out, leaning over, arms in front, one leg bent, the other leg locked and I begged, “Don’t let go.”
He let go and I fell over.
He would show off and demonstrate what we were supposed to look like. And then order us to “Oxygenate!”
This went on for an hour. And it was hot and humid. Now I know what hot yoga is like. I also know what it’s like to have my leg caressed by a very attractive man and wish he would pay more attention to the middle-aged guy next to me and let me do my mediocre poses in peace.
Finally, the torture, I mean, the class came to an end.
I drank an entire bottle of water as I walked back to the room. But I felt proud. I had survived the yoga tyrant.