Her name is Christine.
I had a great yoga practice the other night – my latest in a recent string of great classes, all given by Christine. It’s made me realize that my lack of zeal these past months may have much to do with my last teacher, John. Over the six years of my practice, I’ve discovered that I relate better to female teachers than male. There is a certain quality of softness, exploration and play that a woman brings to the asana room; something male teachers seem to lack. After my last exhilarating practice with Christine, I began thinking about how much those words (softness, exploration, play) sound like descriptors for sex. I began reminiscing about my previous teachers’ style. John would lead us through the same poses every night – in the same sequence. Like stale lovemaking, we would move from position to position without any spontinaity, creativity or passion. Imagine how quickly one would get bored if that was the case in the bedroom. First I will kiss your lips, followed by a short neck nuzzle, 5 minutes of oral stimulation, coitus, post orgasmic cuddling then sleep. My teacher before, also a guy, taught a super-vigorous practice that I called “balls -to-the-wall” yoga. It was fast and furious – each class for the entire 90 minutes, not unlike what Carrie Bradshaw would call Jackrabbit sex. Wham, wham, wham. No getting in the mood – just muscle through it. The best part is when it’s over.
So, I guess when it comes to yoga, I’m eschewing the boys forever in favor of the girls.