Whole Life Times: Go West, Young Woman

July 2007 | Healthy Living :: Yoga

Go West, Young Woman

Finding yoga, booty and community brings one Angeleno home

By Allyson T. Collins

I recently relocated to Los Angeles from New York. No, not the city. Upstate — that vast mix of rural and suburban blasé Americana that extends its reach northwest of the Bronx and up all the way to Canada. The people I grew up with devoured greasy comfort food and, in lieu of exercise, watched high school football games. Nary a Whole Foods nor a yoga studio altered the woodsy landscape.

I should have migrated to Manhattan. It might have been easier to achieve my longed-for transformation into sophisticated urbanista while only a three-hour drive from my mother’s macaroni and cheese. But I craved a fresh lifestyle, so I drove 2,800 miles past Times Square to create it.

I found my first LA apartment online. In my roommate’s eyes, paying the rent did not equate friendship, so I reluctantly settled into an isolated routine, working 12-hour days and driving everywhere. As my loneliness intensified, I began looking for ways to assimilate into the local culture. That’s how, one hopeful Saturday morning, I ended up sitting barefoot on a hardwood floor at Swerve Studio in West Hollywood.

“Yoga Booty Ballet.” The allure of a name. The creators of this all-levels workout routine blended their training in ballet, jazz and modern dance to produce a funky Western twist on an ancient Eastern tradition. Desperate to add a hip hobby to my decidedly suburban resume, I figured YBB would be perfect. I had always discounted yoga as the antithesis to my sweat-soaked cardio-fests at the gym, but I hoped that anything with a bit of booty in it would shake the doubt from my mind.

And so I sat cross-legged, anxiously comparing my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors with that of the chatty regulars. They sported “Goddess in Training” tank tops, some carrying post-baby weight and others effortlessly sleek in designer yoga gear. In my black capris and plain white t-shirt, I felt slightly inadequate. This was clearly not the place to hide one’s sense of style.

The instructors skipped into the room, introducing themselves as Gillian and Teigh. Blonde Gillian grinned as she hugged a few of the students, while dark-haired Teigh calmly surveyed the studio. As the duo prepared to review the rules, conversation murmured to a halt. Number one: if you accidentally bump into someone, touch her with love. Number two: go at your own pace, as this is a non-competitive environment — a blessing, given that I could barely touch my toes without bending my knees.

At Teigh’s command, I closed my eyes, relaxed my shoulders and aspired upward to the highest vision of myself. The sound of a roomful of women rubbing palms together filled the studio space. I peeked beneath my lashes at the 30 or so students moving and breathing confidently around me. They had years of experience with yoga. Years or perhaps lifetimes of experience dealing with a West Coast existence. Yet they still braved traffic to attend class with smiles on their faces.

I squeezed my lids shut, determined to drive away the emptiness that seemed to dampen my spirit with every passing minute I lived away from home. Then, holding my hands in prayer pose, I set my intentions for the workout: to avoid humiliation and to be at peace with my decision. Following Gillian’s gentle guidance, I slowly opened my eyes, keenly aware of the energy that had rushed to the skin of my hands and face.

Seconds later, the live bongo drumming began, and we jumped right into the “booty” portion of the class. Though I was clueless about yoga lingo, it didn’t matter because these women didn’t speak in traditional terms. Legs apart. Arms up. Sunflower to the right! I circled my upper body, twisting at the waist, my fingertips tracing the outline of an imaginary clock that reminded me it was time to change. To the left! My back bent, my abs crunched to the side and the muscles in my neck released the tension that had been captive for weeks.

We moved faster with each passing song, shifting our arms side to side while rocking the baby and gyrating our hips while stirring the pot. I tossed aside my early first-timer worries, and lost myself, vamping along with fellow classmates as a seductive stripper, chorus line kicker and go-go dancer.

Drums rolling to a softer tempo, we pulled out the yoga mats. The unfamiliar motions challenged my body to adapt. Down dog. Cobra. Triangle. Warrior. Our spirits brightened the room like the strands of white Christmas lights encircling the ceiling. Finally, I collapsed onto my back and placed my left hand over my stomach and right hand over my pounding heart, basking in the silence.

After what felt like hours, Teigh’s whispers awakened me from my reverie. I gradually returned to a seated position, this time drained of all hesitation, my fears, for the moment, forgotten. With one long Om, I exhaled, the roomful of women’s voices humming in unison. Then I bowed to my instructors, to my fellow Angelenos and to my new home. Namaste.

Allyson T. Collins is a science writer in Los Angeles.

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