A curious assortment.

There are different yoga studios for all sorts of different people. There is Kundalini and Iyengar and Jiva Mukti, there is Ashtanga and Vinyasa, Bikram and good old Hatha, and those are just the ones top of my head. The idea that all these different styles could not only co-exist in peace, but also be taught under one roof, seemed impossible for a long time and is probably still snubbed by the true defenders of (insert your kind of yoga here). Cape Town is a liberal melting pot not only for people, but also for yoga styles. So we are blessed, or cursed, depending on which side of the mat you stand, with multiple studios offering a blend of yoga styles like Hot Vinyasa, Express Bikram, Acro-Yoga in the forest, or Yoga with weights. Seems like we Capetonians like to mix it up. Interesting enough all these studios still have their very own set of followers. There is the old, established studio that gets all the newbies, the one where all the suburban Mums go and a few pro Rugby players (which might explain why all the Mums go there), the one with the really serious yogis and where all the teachers practise, and then there is the one with the models, the acrobats, and the yoga Barbies. That’s where I currently go and yes, I like it. Though sometimes I’m astonished by this curious assortment of who considers themselves yogis today.
The other day we were all in the room before class started; some chilling, some stretching, and some performing circus-like acts. Only one girl was checking emails on her Blackberry. Apparently I was the only one slightly disturbed by the sight of a phone in the room, because nobody else even looked. Back in the day I remember people would ask us politely if they could take a phone in on silent. These were usually doctors or midwives and on emergency call. But she? Call me judgemental, but for some reason she didn’t look like a doctor or a midwife and surely a call back for a go see doesn’t qualify as emergency?
She wasn’t alone though in her profession and it made me wonder if models get sponsored yoga clothes. They always wear colour coordinated outfits, which need to be adjusted frequently throughout the practise to stay coordinated. Well, it’s a tough world out there right in front of the mirror, so you gotta look good while sipping on your designer water bottle. Same goes for the long, swooshy hair and why would anyone tie it up properly beforehand so it won’t come undone while you are hanging out in downward facing dog?
The acrobats are a whole other story. I once saw a guy in tight biker shorts worn over tights. I wasn’t quite sure if that was his regular ballet dancer look or if he was hoping for added sweating thus more weight loss in the heat. I didn’t think he needed it as he had a nice six-pack and strong arms which pushed him in and out of handstands for a warm up. There is usually quite a few of them. One I have seen a couple of times and I swear he must have escaped the circus, because that was the last time I saw such upper body strength and control. I didn’t think what he was doing qualified as yoga, but I will admit I was starring. It was kind of like getting an exclusive sneak-peak at Cirque du Soleil.
Then there are the proper yoga Barbies. They are usually a mix of girls who have either been practising for years or are just blessed with incredible flexible limbs. They look like a proper pretzel while they make you feel like the Weisswurst to go with it. It takes a solid ego to put your mat down next to them and you have to remember really hard that yoga is not about what it looks like from the outside, but what it feels like from the inside. And before you think me really mean, I used to love my Barbies and yes, I’m simply also a bit envious of these genetically blessed ladies.
My mother, a yoga teacher for most of her life, would probably shake her head at what we call yoga these days and who does it. Sometimes when I wait for class to start I do too. But then the acrobats, the models, the Barbies, and I all get into Child’s Pose and the room becomes quiet. That’s the moment when I make my peace with this assortment of so called yogis. At the end of the day whatever brought us onto the mats, now we are here, all doing yoga. Who cares if someone came for spiritual enlightenment or a slimmer waist line? Yoga is for everybody. Even if your hair is too shiny to be true.

P.S. After last night's class I think it is vital for your information that I add another group to this assortment: the moaner. Monica Seles had nothing on the girl I was next to yesterday. She may have just voiced her annoyment with me as I was late (may I add second ever class only!!) or because she was having a hard time, all well and good, but boy I was confused by these sounds coming from her. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind sounds when doing yoga at all, let it all out if that works for you... but she, she must have been practising for a porn star audition. Nobody makes sounds like this when they are laying still and not think of a certain something!

And then there was Dior.

Rember what I wrote yesterday? That was all AD. As in ante Dior. As in before I saw that:

How much would I love to get married in a black and navy dress? And can you tell it has my name on it?
And call me easily distracted or flaky these days, but I also changed my choice of groom after seeing the video below. I don't think it gets any better, sexier, intriguing, smart, mesmerizing than him.

Crazy beautiful.

Admittedly this post is a bit random. It’s a funny Thursday so just bear with me and go with it, okay?

My friend sent me a poem about a Martini and I thought it a good opportunity to tell you why Martinis are like boobs and why I don’t drink them anymore. Then I saw the new Saint Laurent collection and now life will never be the same again.
Fashion rarely makes my heart beat faster anymore, but this - I mean can we talk about these dresses? Or maybe not, we could just sit here and stare at them. Yup, that’s what I will be doing for the rest of the day.

I call it The secret meeting of the Witches of Eastwick and Cardinal Richelieu at the Jardin Majorelle. From now on I will be just like all the other girls, dreaming of my wedding day, picturing all the details. I shall be wearing the crème dress with cape and my groom will be the master himself. After all who cares if you have a gay husband if you can wear things so beautiful every day of your happily ever after?

One ring.

I realized I haven’t told the story of when I was 21 and madly in love with the older man. Older only he was 36, which at the time seemed significant, especially because he still managed to behave like a 15 year old which caused all the tragedy in the end. Oh yes, I forgot to mention – it is a tragic love story. The reason why it came back to my mind was that the ring he had given me broke yesterday. No, not the kind of ring you think now (and I would sincerely hope a diamond ring doesn’t just break like this), but a ring he had given me as a Mitbringsel from a trip to Berlin… but let’s start at the beginning…

So little 21 year old me was interning at an ad agency and waitressing at a nearby hip restaurant for some H&M spending money. We had a lot of regulars and one them was Oli. I’m not sure how he ended up with this cutesy nick name, because he was anything but, but this was how I called him. He was a generous and polite guest, a photographer, stylish, and I should add for full disclosure: he looked like a turtle. Mind you, I’m not being mean, I’m being objective and it didn’t matter a thing to me.
One night he and his friend were the last customers and annoyed me to no avail, because I wanted to leave and started very loudly to clean the tables next to theirs. Next thing I knew his friend went to the bathroom and he stood next to me awkwardly. I think this is when I started to melt because if a grown man can look so awkward and shy when asking you out – ups, I gave it away – it is quite endearing. In hindsight I don’t know if the way he asked is officially stupid, but to me it was even more endearing and scored him a big yes.

Oli: What do I need to do that you go out with me?

Me: Dah. Ask me!

No, that is a lie. That would have been the witty answer. I was a perpetual broke intern with a love for fine food so in fact I told him to ask me out for dinner, which he did and we were happy to find out that we shared the same favourite restaurant.
Off we went and on we got. We became the bestest of friends. Well sort of. In hindsight, again there is a lot of hindsight here, but I was little so forgive me for being so stupid, it wasn’t very nice of him to ask me out while he still had a girlfriend. Which was why we were just friends. Friends with desert. Not what you think. Real desert. We would always only have mains and deserts, but never starters.
At some point the girlfriend was no more. And then came the weekend he had to go to Berlin for work. Have I mentioned that since knowing him I refuse to go out with still life photographers? They are a funny breed. If you fuss about inanimate objects all day, you kind of lose your way with people. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. So we said our goodbye, as friends do, and I jokingly told him to get me a Mitbringsel from the trip. In fact I was only half joking, because who doesn’t want presents always?
He came back with a very pretty little bag. Girls want pretty little bags, the smaller, the better in fact. Mine must have been the smallest one ever, because it came with not one but two rings. A pink and a blue one and though for the untrained eye they may have looked like toy rings out of a gumball machine, I knew designer when I saw it. More than that they were me! That was the night we first kissed. I’m not even going to try giving you a feministic pretence that the jewellery didn’t have a part in this. Don’t you even dare to think badly of me for going out with a turtle just because he gave me nice stuff and deserts! I was crazy about this man deserts or not. If I wouldn’t know better now, I would say I was even madly in love with him and so attracted to him, writing this story now my heart is still racing just a little bit.

So that was the good part of the story. The tragic part I prefer to tell quickly: he rekindled with his ex, lied about it and unfortunately got caught. You all saw that coming, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t and it led to some door slamming and messages on his answering machine á la I meant what I said when I told you to never call me again! from my side. Guys, if a girl says that it is usually a lie and she wants nothing more than for you to call her. He knew that and even called at parents’ house where I had fled in my despair and was greeted my laughing mother Ooh, so you are the man who broke my daughter’s heart!?I guess everything is a bit dramatic when you are 21, right? I gave one of the rings to my friend afterwards to make a statement, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone and he never knew about it anyhow. There was also a steamy sequel in Paris a few years later, which probably wasn’t a smart move, but who can think straight when overlooking Paris at midnight?

And now the ring broke. Just like that. I’m not even sad, the ring and the story had done their time. I think unlike Frodo I won’t make a big fuss and a trilogy and just put it in the trash.

Happy happy for Miss Cotton Candy.

Ja, ja, I know I said I usually don’t do birthday posts…whatever… I hereby declare birthday posts the new 3D pop-up cards! We all pretend we don’t want one, but secretly we are dying to be young enough again to qualify to get one. Luckily there is no age limit for a birthday post. Not that the receiver of this post should be worried as she is only my age anyhow. Wink*.

A birthday post (toast to follow in private) to my most wonderful, cotton candy friend (read the whole story why she is called such and how to spell cotton candy in Arabic here) , Julia – happy Birthday!

Wishing you lots of …

…and something cotton candy colored:

…and of course:

I love you dearly my friend and am so happy and grateful to have you in my life!
xxa
 *Yes, I actually wrote wink. Sue me.