Teenage Wasteland

At the risk of having every recent post on my blog sound like I've turned into an exercising nut, I would like to tell you that I live for my Wednesday night yoga class.  I've recently started attending classes at a yoga/core fusion studio in Boston (courtesy of a friend's discount, I might add, as this place is way out of my normal budget.)  After a month or so of "trying out" various instructors and classes, I can say without question that the 6pm Wednesday class is where. it's. at.  The class is called "Music Yoga Flow" and online, it's described as a class geared to the seasoned student who likes to sweat and be challenged both physically and mentally.  Set to great music, including rock, reggae, hip hop, blues and world beats, each flow class offers an inspiring message and a deeply relaxing finish.

As you can probably imagine, I wasn't quite sure what to expect the first time I set foot into the studio.  Turns out, the instructor of that class?  Really knows her music.  I have been continually impressed each week as she figures out a way to have us moving into our downward dogs while Willie Nelson croons or going through a flow to one of Jay-Z's songs.  I know it sounds crazy, and maybe even a touch un-yoga-like but it is flipping awesome and the work-out is just the right amount of challenging.  She times her playlists perfectly too so we're transitioning into the next routine just as a new tune is starting up.  The only downside I've been able to discover is that at times I find myself so engrossed in the music she's playing that I loose my concentration in a pose.  (Ahem.  Not that that happened last night when she played a certain song sung by Robert Pattinson, which caused me to get all flustered thinking about my little crush on him or anything.  I mean, I'm just saying hypothetically it could, people.  That's all.)

Anyway.

Yesterday was the first day I was back to feeling a bit more normal after dealing with my first annoying cold of the season.  So I was thrilled to feel as if I had enough energy to swing over for this class.  As we cooled down near the end of the class, our instructor dimmed the lights in the room and we ran through our final flow before Shavasana to one of my absolute favorite songs (Runaway) by one of my absolute favorite bands (The National). Maybe it was just the darkened room.  Or maybe it was the eventual, subtle movement into our final pose, lying on our backs preparing for Shavasana, eyes closed. Perhaps it was the music's volume - just loud enough to feel like it was washing over me completely.  Or, most likely, it was a combination of all of these things.  But for the first time in a very long time, I found myself recalling with utter clarity and perception how many evenings I used to spend in my bedroom as a teenager, sprawled on my bed staring up at the ceiling, letting whatever my current song obsession was at the time play over and over again, the music washing over me.  What a luxury those nights were!  To have the time, the ability to not worry about my unfinished homework or my messy bedroom or the need to get to sleep for an early morning; to have absolutely nothing to focus on but a favorite lyric or beat, to think of nothing further than my white bedroom ceiling, staring into space, zoning out, and listening to everything all at the same time. 

Now it wasn't like I had some profound revelation about all of this last night, and in fact, this essay doesn't really have any sort of lesson learned or final point to make beyond the fact that sometimes, somewhere, something triggers a memory or a feeling you've long since forgotten you had tucked away in your brain at all.  I am always grateful for those moments.  I do my best not to miss them, when they're gifted my way. 

And I guess sometimes, it's just nice to feel like a teenager again - at least for a minute or two.