I Tried a Different Yoga Class Than Usual and It Went Terribly, Terribly Wrong

My sister usually takes charge of our yoga class schedule, and I oblige more often than not. Call it a system, but whatever it was, it worked. Until she signed us up for the Vinyasa 2 class.

I’m not normally intimidated by numbers. Honestly, I hadn’t even realized there were numbers in yoga. Vinyasa Flow (or, apparently, Vinyasa 1) had been my dear companion for a while. Leaving it for something “bigger” felt sorta monumental. But I trusted my sister, and figured it would be another chance to hang out and do something active after a long day at a desk.

When I asked her to explain, she simply said, “The holds will be a little longer and there’s more balance involved, but don’t you want a little more workout?” Nothing like a younger sibling to ignite your inner competitor. Yeah, I got this, I thought. Piece of crumb.

This is where the story should have ended—my sister shoving me into a class that maybe made me sweat more profusely. Instead, it was the beginning of a special kind of nightmare.

I realized we had made a miscalculation of tragic proportions right after our teacher introduced himself. The man at the front of the room, let’s call him Gustav, was brimming with confidence and eager to share his essential and important knowledge. He spoke with gusto about his practice, the transformations it had taken of late, and the breakthroughs he had experienced.

Notably, handstands. Lots of them. This was the key, he said, to a new lease on life.

These were no mere acts of strength. They were an identity. His identity. For the next 60 minutes, they became something for us, too. Namely, sore shoulders and the reminder of our own inadequacies. Welcome to Gustavland.

This was not a yoga class—this was a stage with room for but one tank-topped star. We watched in awe (stupor?) as Gustav cantilevered his feet skyward and began leading class from his inverted throne. How, exactly, he was able to teach with so much blood rushing to his head was perplexing to me, but it perhaps explained his lack of real instruction.

Bodies hit the floor as student after student attempted to mimic The Elevated One. I got my knees to rest on my elbows before realizing I wasn’t going higher today, or maybe ever. But Child’s Pose was not an option, not in Gustav’s show. The commands boomed from somewhere down where his shins should have been, a low-hanging mouth hole in an otherwise dark room. Up! Up! UP!

I was at once publicly embarrassed and ridiculously entertained. The mat had become my home, I would move no further. My sister, on the other hand, was fully under Gustav’s spell. Half-rising, falling, then half-rising again, she punctuated each tumble with a slight whimper before signing up for more.

We left class under a shroud of silence, but not before Gustav had lined everyone up so that he could walk by each of us for his high five.

My sister got to the car first. We exchanged bewildered glances, and I couldn’t suppress the giggle that had been bubbling just beneath the surface for the last 30 minutes. What just happened?

“I don’t think that was Vinyasa 2,” she said.