I’ve started going to Bikram yoga. Its quite a gross affair because the room is heated and you spend 90 minutes in a class full of strangers sweating like race horses, and me not being one for other peoples bodily fluids, I find it hard to control my gag reflexes when the instructor walks past and suddenly I feel as if I’m standing under a leaky gutter.
That said, however, I find it quite relaxing (once its over) and quite amusing too because people take stretching and lying on their backs very seriously. They come in, unsmiling, with their shorts pulled up to their eye balls and a look that says ‘I’m here to become one with the sweat and get in touch with my inner little Indian man’ (when in actual fact all they are really projecting is that they’re unemployed and that’s why they’re able to attend a yoga class at 12:00 on a Monday afternoon. After all, that’s why I was there.)
I’ve always associated yoga with wealthy housewives and hippies. I’ve always had a soft spot for hippie type living – if you can call it that – probably because of the home I grew up in and although now that I can choose my preference is minimalist, white and clean, a hippyish/ boho styled house lends a certain air of charm and makes the welcome in seem even grander than most places.
From one of the first blogs I ever followed, Moon to Moon offers an escape into that free-spirited, house plant filled, charming-piles-of-delightful-crap-everywhere world.
(Images: Moon to Moon)