NEXUS: WELCOME...HOME?
Local Locomotion Aerial Yoga GRACE MITCHELL
When Nexus asked me to head to a yoga class and write a review on the experience my tense, burnt-out, jaded fifth-year ass that can’t sink more than 8 cans without a 2-day hangover, I thought it sounded like a brilliant idea. I mean, I am something of a yogi, if you consider a yogi to be a white girl prone to the occasional 15-minute Youtube power sesh with a Sanskrit tat just visible above some ludicrously overpriced Lululemons, and someone who once camped out at a yoga festival and actively enjoyed it, without even joining the crowds in a joint or mushroom sampling to guide my spiritual development. So, in other words, my qualifications would say I’m the right gal for the job. You don’t need to know what the fuck a shavasana is to know that yoga has exploded in popularity throughout the modern world, with studios popping up to appropriate Indian culture wherever there are suburban housewives with money. And money can be key, because at $25 a pop, the class I went to wasn’t cheap. That’s approximately 15 meals if you’re a noodle connoisseur/ professional student such as myself. I’ve tried my fair share of classes throughout Hamilton as well as through the web, and though some studios are more memorable than others, I can’t say I ever HAVEN’T enjoyed a practice. After all, yoga was not actually designed to be measured by aesthetics like whether the studio has a Monstera, if the sequence of poses slaps hard, or how good your bum looks in leggings; rather, it’s always a good session if you get some deep breathing in and snuggle into that blissful, relaxing state of forcefully forgetting that you’re three weeks behind schedule on uni work or whatever other bullcrap is occupying your brain juice. With that said, what the fuck could be a cosier excuse to boycott your workload than gravity-defying yoga, right?
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