1) Big-name gyms have big-name-gym distractions. Doing yoga while weights are dropped and the spin class next door does a hill climb to hip hop makes for a somewhat odd yoga environment.
2) The clientele can be really disruptive. Or, more specifically, a specific subset of the clientele can be very disruptive. Which is to say that this yoga class is routinely littered with gaggles of giggly teenagers, all grouped up and acting as though it were gym class.
Now, I have nothing against giggly teenage girls, who are generally somewhat sweet and nostalgic to watch. But this bubbly teenagerness loses its shine during yoga, because right in the middle of a pose, these girls will suddenly start laughing and whispering to each other. This just makes for a strange and disruptive yoga experience, because when I'm upside-down in a bind, the last thing I expect or want to hear is teenage whispering peppered with outright laughter. Seriously, girls, I'm trying to concentrate on my breathing over here. Shhhhh... hasati-asana isn't actually a pose, so... quiet. (And namaste.)
In order to cope with these outbursts, I myself simply try to (a) concentrate really, really hard on my own practice, and (b) when that fails, fall back on a Zen technique I learned in birthing class, and mentally wish them well.
I do not envy the Monday night yoga teacher, who has to put up both with these unruly shenanigans, and with the annoyed huffing and puffing from the adults who are actually trying to practice yoga. Some yoga teachers might ask these kids to separate, to be respectful of the others in class, or to leave - I have a hard time imagining any crunchy Berkeley teacher worth his or her salt just letting this go on - but my Monday night teacher, for whatever reason, has never said a word to them. Instead, she seems to have come up with two very interesting techniques to deal with the situation:
1) Make class really, really challenging.
It's much more difficult to giggle when you're in horse for like 5 minutes straight, including various sumo-like arm gestures. Seriously. The only problem with this technique is that Monday night yoga is at 7:30, and the reason that I attend this class is to get a solid but mellow start to the week. This class and teacher are generally known for being on the mellow side - this isn't your average big-name-gym yogaerobics vinyasa flow class. So imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, on a night wherein there was not one but two separate groups of Gigglers, my teacher went on a Navy-Seal-Like tear that left my quads sore for 2 days. But it worked - the girls were hushed until we started winding down for savasana, at which point, inevitably, the whispering and laughing started again.
And, thwarted by the actual need to end class with savasana, which gave The Gigglers enough breath to giggle anew, my teacher tried a new tactic the following week:
2) Use a soundtrack they might enjoy.
Whether it was the blown savasana or whether she decided that punishing everyone Navy Seal Style repeatedly was unfair, her new teenage crowd control technique made for a pretty interesting yoga experience. I mean, hearing an Owl City song at the beginning of a yoga class just isn't the norm.
While other, older adults in class looked a bit puzzled by the change in music, I have to admit that I was rather enjoying the Coldplay and Death Cab while I dutifully performed my Warriors and whatnot. And, truthfully, the kids seemed to be quieter than normal.
And this is why hearing the opening notes of "Chariots of Fire" while I was trying to get into the pose seemed really, really unlikely.
I thought I must be hearing the song wrong. Was this teacher really expecting the class to be able to concentrate on this pose while listening to such a ridiculous song?
Yes. Apparently she was. Because those horns kept building, and the synthesizer kicked in, and then the piano started, and suddenly the entire class was wobbling into King of the Dance pose in the slow-motion manner required to enter this pose properly, while "Chariots of Fire" proudly and loudly trumpeted from the stereo.
It was at this point, watching the slow-mo pose entrances of my classmates, that I - rather fairly, I think - started to giggle. Now, I only giggled a little - because it's pretty hard to stand on one leg and hold the other leg and giggle all at the same time. But I did permit myself a look around the room via the mirror, and it was clear that I was not the only over-30 person in the room having the same challenge. The teenagers, on the other hand, didn't seem to have the foggiest recognition of this song.
And this is when I started to wonder whether we adults were simply pawns in our teacher's grand plan to annoy the teenagers by planting a private adult joke that would lead us all to burst out in uncontrollable giggles, thus distracting them in a somewhat challenging balancing pose.
Regrettably, if that was her plan, it failed. The Monday night adult crew is pretty die-hard, and while there was some pretty hilarious eye contact in the mirror with others who seemed to acknowledge the absurdness of the soundtrack, we just as quickly looked away from each other in order to avoid an outburst.
It took all my concentration to focus inward, away from the trumpeting horns and delicate piano and wobbling neighbors, and just execute my King of the Dance. But execute it I did, people, leg high and proud and not at all wobbly. Which is to say that this class is becoming a master class in concentration.
I honestly have no idea what next week's class will hold. But I hope it involves a monkey.
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