There are two struggles in practicing yoga. The first is the actual class. The second is the perpetual, losing battle of attempting to explain to outsiders just how strenuous 90 minutes of stretching can be. Because to most, yoga is the athletic equivalent of cranberry juice; good on occasion, but normally reserved for women on their periods.
Stretching and standing, holding your own body weight, keeping your arms in the air, deep breathing. Doesn't seem that difficult. Three year olds can do it. Let me tell you, when done correctly, it feels like your soul was sucked out through your pores. Some alleged "restorative" poses are tantamount to having your hips wrung through a medieval torture device...and you're doing it to yourself.
But Yoga isn't just for spiritual masochists and flexible deviants. There is another contingent who accepts Yoga as a strenuous exercise. A group that prides themselves on good posture...and firmed glamour muscles.
Bros.
Bros have invaded my yoga studio and there is no hope of them leaving. It's easy to spot a practitioner of bro-ga (not to be confused with the Malaysian village of the same name). Decked out in Under Armour. Loading up on NO Explode 30 minutes before their workout, chugging protein-rich Gatorade 3 series afterwards (which tastes vaguely like someone poured Yoplait yogurt into a Gatorade bottle and then shook vigorously). Singing Mötorhead to themselves for motivation (Time for tree pose? No problem. *humming*The ace of spades...the ace of spades...). Even though they have simply stretched their hamstrings, they puff their chest out with the swell of repping out sets of 225 on the bench.
And they aren't here to meet women. They're here for the workout. (sidebar: Strangely, yoga isn't the best place to find dates. Conversation during class is frowned upon. Spotting a female always comes with the death stare of "I have mace in my purse" that is normally reserved for all girls' college campuses. You know, because there's always the chance of the discreet "You're going to fall on your head if I don't catch you" fondle).
Granted, there is no "wrong way" to practice yoga. Everyone practices in a different manner, depending on their ability and temperament. Each person's pose is as unique as a snowflake, young grasshopper.
That being said, they're doing it wrong.
They force the pose, opting for looking great rather than feeling great. They kick up to handstand at the expense of proper form. But who cares if you're wrenching your back and tearing your calves off the bone? You're upside down and knocking out pushups.
For them, inner peace comes second to a great workout for your delts and traps, brah. It isn't a competitive sport (although it totally should be). It is yoga practice. Granted, there is something counterintuitive about practicing a skill that will only come in handy the next time you practice. When does yoga become functional? Yoga games?
A teacher of mine remarked "It doesn't matter how many cobra poses you can do if you're still an asshole." It's about what you do outside of class, taking what you learn in class with you. Yoga is a means to an end, not the destination in itself.
You can always tell a Bro-gi from their trademark sound: the grunt. Not so much a primal scream. More like a grizzly bear warding off enemies or the mating call of an elephant seal or Serena Williams in her third set at Wimbledon. I'm talking about a "GRRRRRRRRRRAUGH!" before, during and after every pose. Before, to psych themselves up. During, to maintain. After, as a signal of triumph. "Om" is normally a mantra of peace, not the vocal portion of a bro-gasm.
Their thought process is pretty easy to devise (note: it's not that I have a great insight into the mind of the bros. It's that their internal monologue oftentimes becomes vocalized). But while they're holding downward facing dog, they are thinking one of the following:
"Yeah, motherfucker! I'm kicking the living shit out of this pose!"
"I am totally going to find inner peace and have more flexible hamstrings! AMERICA!"
"Upside down handstand pushups. Let's go! 1....2...3...3 1/2...3 3/4... Time to rest! 1...2...3..."
"Chicks dig a man who can bust out eka pada bakasana whenever they want! Chicks, man. Chicks and America!"
"Sweet pose, Broprah Winfrey!" (Normally accompanied by a slap on the ass)
They tend to take spotting a bit too seriously. They get a bit too overzealous. Yoga spotting isn't like a bench press. It's about using the least amount of resistance to keep your partner in the pose. Not:
"Oh hell yes! Hold it! You're doing great! Doing great! Five more seconds! Focus! PUSH IT! FEEL THE BURN! Do it for America! Do it for Freedom! FUCK YOU, AL-QAEDA! MY MAN IS HOLDING A HANDSTAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM! WOOO!"
And release.
Recently, I was tempted to lapse back into my earlier days of bro-ga. My yoga teacher played "That's All" last week during class (a playlist dedicated to the 1980's). My first instinct was to point out that I've always been a big Genesis fan ever since the release of their 1980 album, Duke. Before that, I didn't really understand any of their work. Too artsy. Too intellectual. It was on Duke that Phil Collins' presence became more apparent.
But as yoga has taught me, I exercised restraint and continued deep breathing. And the world was a better place for that silence.
So Bros, can the grunting and the exuberant posing. It's tough to call it "inner peace" if it is neither inside or peaceful. And if you can't handle that, consider the Bar Method. You'll meet women who like grasping stiff rods. And after you stop giggling, maybe you'll find a decent workout.
*******
Comments