The Pleasure of The Plural

I'm bending over backwards. But it's not that kind of Saturday night...

They say all roads lead to lawyers. But anyone living in Los Angeles can attest: all roads lead to yoga. In my case. In my hyper intense, slightly dyslexic, and mildly masochistic case (again not that kind of Saturday night) it's Bikram yoga.

They say there are only five stories, and it's just the retelling of them that matters. In Los Angeles however, there are really only five questions.

1. Where do you study acting? (and by the way everyone has a Larry Moss experience or connection.)

2. What diet are you on?

These days everyone says gluten and sugar free. But we're all liars. Because you know you can find me lying on my coach, yelling at Simon Cowell and eating red velvet cupcakes by the dozen from Doughboys, any ol' night of the week.

3. What neighborhood do you live in?

Silverlake= skinny jeans, skinny ties, and an ability to read fiction.
West Hollywood= Runyun Canyon, a mid level agency and a deep desire for a dog.
Brentwood = possible addiction issues, a very rich family, and not afraid to wear rhinestones. On anything. Including UGGS. And if the rhinestones form an angel wing pattern. Well. Even better.
Santa Monica= surfboards, UGGS, and working your way up (quickly) in the mail room at UTA.
Pacific Palisades= Intimidatingly beautiful, impeccable bone structure, married to the owner of UTA
Burbank= pregnant.

4.How are you working on yourself?

Therapy = Everyone.
(but does your therapist actually live in LA, or do you pull over on the 405 to take much needed phone sessions with your shrink in New York).
Twelve step groups= There is actually a twelve step group in this city for people who are addicted to twelve step groups.
Energetic healing= Which involves shifting your paradigm, and does not necessarily mean you're repped at Paradigm. Usually you have to give up carbs for the latter. And the former.
The self help aisle at Barnes and Nobles= For the thrifty.
Life coaches= For the successful.

5. And finally dear reader: what kind of yoga do you do?

The debates on the best types of yoga are varied and heated. In fact where you go to yoga means more than where you worship God. In this city, your body is God.

Which brings me back to Saturday. Where I am in a Bikram yoga class. The room is heated to 105 degrees, the doors are closed. This is serious.


I am bending over backwards, sweating out every pore, cursing the burrito I ate fifteen minutes before the class and trying not to pass out. It is intense. The heat is intense. The teachers have told me to expect nausea, to expect black outs, to expect fear.


But they didn't say anything about panic. I can feel the panic rise in me. As I stare jealously at the perfectly formed ass bending over in front of me. Why am I so jealous? I ask myself. Don't think that way, I yell inside my head, where all the great battles are waged.

I remember my friend Skylar told me that she took a Brazilian dance class after a terrible break up, and she spent the whole time staring at this ass in front of her, convinced that her ex boyfriend had at one point or other, tapped that ass.


Ahhh. Love.

"Be calm be calm be calm" I scream at myself.

Why don't I drink more water, and why isn't the teacher using any plurals? My mind sticks on this point.

She is speaking into a headset, wearing a bikini, and saying:

"for maximum happiness bend knee, lift leg, think happy, bend knee."

But we're bending both knees I want to holler at her! Both knees! Why do you deny me the pleasure of the plural? Not to be too literal, but I am single.

"Practice four time a week for maximum happiness." She continues on.

"Four timessss a week!" I want to scream back. I want to step off my mat and get up in her face, how dare she give up plurals? She's a twenty five year old who grew up in the valley! With a perfect body! Only true gurus can have bad grammar.

What an asshole.

The worst part of my mental breakdown, is that I know the only asshole in the room is me. I smoked three cigarettes the day before. I ate the burrito. I insist on lattes and wine. And then expect to find Nirvana, (or at least a really toned ass that someone might want to one day tap) in an hour.

My mind now is in full Nazi mode. Screaming at myself. Screaming at the other people in the class. At least when Elizabeth Gilbert decided to Eat Love and Pray, she got an Ashram. I know I'm about to lose it, when I'm muttering under my breath:

"Where's my bloody ashram, where's my bloody ashram?"

I look around the room, I am comparing myself to everyone, and then suddenly I hit, what I believe they call bottom, my head hitting the orange of my sweaty yoga mat.

I see how many years I have been in yoga class, in ballet class, in cardio barre class, in beer commercial auditions, in my bikini,in bridal showers, trying to be something I'm not: perfect.

The number one rule in Bikram is: don't leave. Ever. And I have always been really good at following rules. And then I see all the rules I followed, all the people I tried to please, all the times I tried to be someone that I wasn't in order to be loved, approved of, or even just looked at. All the times I stayed, when I should have left. Blacked out on my mat, I try to breathe and beg for her to give me the mercy of a plural.

Instead she screams out: "maximum happiness come from maximum struggle."

I roll up my mat and leave.

I drive home. I can barely breathe. I'm so nauseous, I'm so scared. I'm so scared of finding out who I am. And I'm even more scared of not finding that out.

I get home, peel off my yoga clothes and stand in the hot shower.

Mercifully I have leftovers from Vivoli.

My friend Nick, a no nonsense screen writer from the East Coast, understands about food. We eat good food, rich food, together. A post break up ritual that has been saving me. He always leaves the leftovers, and finishes the wine.

Vivoli has the most honest el dente pasta, with garlic bread this city has to offer. I re heat, the Bolognese.

Nick knows how to pronounce "Bolognese" because he went to Harvard. But you don't need to know how to pronounce something in order to eat it, and I am hungry. I pull on my flannel pyjamas, and dig in. I want bread. I want, the warmth of it. I turn on American Idol, and realize that I am in fact happy. No I'm not at an Ashram. No I haven't figured it all out. My left hand is not being pleasurably weighed down by a diamond ring... But I know how to feed myself. I know how to eat. And that to me is the best therapy, the best yoga class. The best. Warm food. Bad TV, and the sound of my own heartbeat, nestled safely at home.


*******

However, because I am insane, I go back. To the heated yoga. My next time back I make it halfway through the standing poses and then collapse again. On my back the room spinning around me I start to imagine my best friends. It's a trick I've learned to do in challenging situations. I imagine the people who think I am a rock star surrounding me. It's sort of an imaginary friend Entourage. As I'm imagining them I open my eyes, and it's Miss No Plural herself leaning over me and staring into my eyes with such love and concern that I start to tear up. In fact I forget to be jealous of her perfect bikini body.

"It's okay to leave" She tells me. I wipe the sweat and tears from my face and quietly, exit the room, still trying to maintain the slightest bit of Yogini grace. I'm still Buddha I tell myself. Even Buddha misses the train sometimes. After the class Miss No Plural, tells me to eat more miso soup and drink coconut water. Looking into her eyes, I note that she's the type of girl I'd be friends with. And again, I feel like an asshole.

The next week I return. Having stayed up drinking water all night, and beginning my day with miso soup for breakfast, I feel nervous, and something else I'm really not used to: I feel humility. I stand by the door, where I think it might be coolest, and begin the class. The miso, and the water has made a huge difference. Also I didn't smoke a pack of cigarettes the night before which helps too.

I move carefully through the poses. Not assuming that I can do them perfectly. Not trying to show off. In fact just trying to be me in a hot room, with a group of other people.

With my two new friends, sodium and humility I am able to work through the class, and not black out. I don't even mind the teachers lack of plurals. Sun streams in through the window, and I am grateful for the Bolognese and the miso. The Cathedrals, and American Idol. Yin and Yang, yo.

After the class I ask Miss No Plural about Triangle Pose, and she tells me how important it is to bend my knees.

"My knees?" I ask,

Alex did you just give me a S?

"Your knees." She replies.




Vivoli Cafe
www.vivolicafe.com
7994 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046-3307
(323) 656-5050

DoughBoys Cafe and Bakery
www.doughboyscafe.com
8136 West Third Street
Los Angeles, CA 90048
(323)852-1020