I’m
a yoga whore. I have no loyalty, and I’ll try anything. There seem to be 8
million yoga classes in the naked city, and in my month of semi-retirement,
I’ve made headway into trying them all.
I’ve
been a yoga whore for a long time, so I was already familiar with a number of
studios: Ellen Saltonstall (my home base), Shala, Maha Padma, Integral, Ishta,
Vira, Jivamukti, the Om Factory.
But
with time on my hands and frugality in mind, I wanted to try others. First I
went for bargains:
*$10
for a week of all-you-can-eat yoga at Yoga Vida—O.K. if you don’t mind
meaning-of-life sermons from 20-year-olds and classes with 50 or more
Lululemon-clad students
*$25
for a week of unlimited classes at Atmananda—O.K. if you get Jhon and don’t
mind some military-style barking in classes so small you feel like a heel for
being a cheapskate in a studio with a concrete floor painted black and ceiling
lanterns that look like the pods from Invasion
of the Body Snatchers
*Pay
what you want (I paid $5) at Yoga to the People—Smells like teen spirit when
the guys take their shirts off
*$12
for Sivananda—Classical but rigid
Except
for the fact that I’m 63 (and most of the students in these bargain-basement
classes look 18), I feel like Goldilocks. Next up: the Papa Bear of yoga,
Iyengar.
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