My parents will be the first to tell you that the way to my heart is via gifts. I really do have an insatiable appetite for free swag (I’m talking about anything from swanky promotional merchandise to the free toothbrushes I get from the dentist), so the I.AM.YOU gift bag I received for being a first timer at the studio was a good start.
I’m not totally materialistic; I also appreciate good music, fine art, and long walks on the beach, but this is about finding my FITiST, not finding a date. However, If FITiST was a dating site (I’ve been trying to get the idea of some sort of singles/match-making component to catch. So far, no bites from the bosses), I.AM.YOU yoga certainly met my credentials.
I hate yoga. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m inflexible and my muscles are neither long nor lean. Somehow, some way, I.AM.YOU got through to me. I had sworn off downward dog and basically everything else about yoga (other than the pants) until I spent an evening at Lauren’s Soho loft.
I found my way to 132 Mulberry Street easily; too easily. Because I always have to mess something up, I aggressively rang the buzzer. Now, for anyone who has taken a class at I.AM.YOU, you have probably received an email telling you NOT to ring the buzzer. I send those emails. I didn’t send one to myself, obviously, so ring I did. “Take the elevator on your right that opens to the street,” said the voice on the intercom. Immediately, I remembered sending all those emails and felt like a total idiot.
Ready to curl up into child’s pose (and die), I arrived on the 6th floor and began apologizing profusely. It really wasn’t a big deal. I stopped apologizing, sat down on a mat, and didn’t speak for the next few minutes (VERY unusual for me). I watched people file into the studio and wondered what I was in for.
These people looked like regular people. A girl in Nike running shorts?! This is already more normal than most yoga experiences I’ve had, seen, or heard about (my mother and I have puzzled over pictures of my aunt’s acro-yoga practice for months. It looks like she and her male-partner are finding something a little more shocking than her shakti, if you know what I’m saying. We’re concerned).
The class begins and Lauren tells us about her month full of family functions and fun. I quickly come to realize that Lauren is not a Buddhist monk. I’m optimistic about the remainder of this class. We move surprisingly fast through countless poses (I don’t know what they’re called and I won’t pretend to).
Lauren even plays real music! Not that I don’t count tribal horns/chanting/drumming as real music, but Lauren plays songs by recognizable bands with pronounceable names! I’m distracted by the beats, but I do notice that I’m sweating…in a yoga class. This is completely revolutionary. I’m no yogi, but I don’t hate it.
Usually in yoga class, like pilates, I feel dumpy, stumpy, and clumsy. This is different. The music is my taste, the lighting is good, and the mirror is leaned against the wall at the perfect angle. Given that I’m sweating and in spandex, I look pretty decent! My “pigeon” needs perfecting and the floor still taunts my raised heels during “downward dog,” but I’m actually having fun.
I was nervous about going to I.AM.YOU. The website boasts pictures of Lauren who boasts a bod I can’t compete with. She’s cool and effortlessly sexy; I’m not cool and not even effortfully (not a word, I know) sexy, but I guess, when it comes to yoga, opposites can at least get along. Also, Lauren’s loft resembles my dream home so when chaturanga failed to hold my focus (hence, I am not a true yogi) I took mental notes on interior décor.
I walked down the Soho streets after class open-minded and inspired (to shop beyond pottery barn). I even called my mom to tell her about my wonderful evening. If only all first dates could go so well! I might even take I.AM.YOU up on a second date: the Music To Know festival in East Hampton with free yoga classes. If I.AM.YOU is trying to impress me, it’s working.
No Gut, Know Glory,
Hope Gimbel
