French butterfly yoga

In spite of, or perhaps because of, teaching two yoga classes Monday and one this morning, I decided that I would also go to a yoga class at the Y last night. Eric decided to join as well.

I had taken a class from this particular teacher before and had found her to be pretty good but not very tough, so I went for a 20 minute swim beforehand.

Walking into class a few minutes late (and reeking of chlorine in spite of having rinsed off) I discovered that it was a different teacher. I never got her name but she was French so I bet it was something like Amelie or Marie Antoinette.

This was a different sort of yoga class than any I have been to before. I'm open to yoga taking many forms and try to just go along for the ride when I find myself in unfamiliar territory.

This was quite a ride.

She tended to pick a short sequence and repeat it many, many, many times in a row. For example, we rolled up and down from standing to a forward fold and back again probably 35 times, no joke. Then after that we stepped into and out of Warrior 1, alternating sides, probably 20 times. It was fast-paced and even people who hadn't just swum 500m seemed to be finding it challenging.

Her voice gave the class a particular mood as well: strict, not quite shrill but very demanding and punctuated. Her thick French accent exaggerated this almost critical tone, as she barked commands about our left and "wight" legs and arms.

Then we went into holding high and low planks for extended lengths of time. At this point, one woman gathered up her things and made an unapologetic exit.

"This is not when you leave," chastised Joan of Arc. "When it gets hard is when you stay, not when you go."

After class, I asked Eric what he thought of the class.

"What was that? Some sort of French butterfly yoga?"

We may never know.