Namaste In the Squat Rack
Namaste In the Squat Rack
“Bro. That eagle pose was sick bro.” I never get that at a yoga studio.
“It’s enough to be present here in the squat rack. It’s not about how many plates you load on the bar.” I never get that at the gym.
I said a few years ago that if I could do only one physical activity, I’d just do yoga.
Wait:
“Yoga is the cessation of the movements of the mind. Then there is abiding in the Seer's own form.”
― Patanjali, The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali
Shit. That’s right. There are eight limbs of yoga. Asana practice (yoga poses) are just one limb. Listen man, I get it. You’re more tapped in than me. Cool. Seriously though, sandblast away my tattoos and burn my death metal records and I’m one reiki session away from going full hippie on your ass. No one rocks harem pants better than me. Don’t threaten me with a good time!
But why would I ever have to pick just one? Well, I guess I was thinking what if I got old and couldn’t run, couldn’t pick up a dumbell anymore? I could see myself on a yoga mat, all wrinkled with my white New Balance’s in a cubby in the lobby.
What I’m pointing out here is the existential angst a meathead feels when they walk into a 105-degree room and collapse, gasping for breath while cute girls crank out chaturanga pushups by the hundreds and press up into graceful handstands with ease. Meanwhile, I’m wondering where they keep the mop so somebody doesn’t break a hip sliding through the pool of sweat that’s accumulated around me. I mean, a good slip and fall lawsuit is a nice way to hit a lick, but it makes me a bit self-conscious just the same. Yeah, well, you guys don’t even lift so...
At the gym, at least I can crank the metal, clap my hands together and disappear into a cloud of chalk. I feel superhuman again. Self-confidence surges. I see my buddy Matt. You know him, he owns an auto shop in Delray. He’s fixed your car, I’m sure. Anyway, I tell him how many reps I got on the bench with 315 lbs. and he pats my head. Gets down and blasts out 20 reps. Shit. Okay, this dude is eleven feet tall and can deadlift a Chrysler if he doesn’t have a jack around.
Anyway, don’t mention yoga at the gym. I mean, I don’t recommend it. “You do yoga bro? Yeah I gotta get in there in do some good stretches man.” Nah dude, it ain’t about that. I’m on some other shit. Just look at these pants!
This is horseshit.
Okay I’ll do it.
But we’re talking about meditation.
Jai Guru Deva
Thomas Ramsburg
Wait:
“Yoga is the cessation of the movements of the mind. Then there is abiding in the Seer's own form.”
― Patanjali, The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali
Shit. That’s right. There are eight limbs of yoga. Asana practice (yoga poses) are just one limb. Listen man, I get it. You’re more tapped in than me. Cool. Seriously though, sandblast away my tattoos and burn my death metal records and I’m one reiki session away from going full hippie on your ass. No one rocks harem pants better than me. Don’t threaten me with a good time!
But why would I ever have to pick just one? Well, I guess I was thinking what if I got old and couldn’t run, couldn’t pick up a dumbell anymore? I could see myself on a yoga mat, all wrinkled with my white New Balance’s in a cubby in the lobby.
Sounds like my typical Sunday morning.
What I’m pointing out here is the existential angst a meathead feels when they walk into a 105-degree room and collapse, gasping for breath while cute girls crank out chaturanga pushups by the hundreds and press up into graceful handstands with ease. Meanwhile, I’m wondering where they keep the mop so somebody doesn’t break a hip sliding through the pool of sweat that’s accumulated around me. I mean, a good slip and fall lawsuit is a nice way to hit a lick, but it makes me a bit self-conscious just the same. Yeah, well, you guys don’t even lift so...
At the gym, at least I can crank the metal, clap my hands together and disappear into a cloud of chalk. I feel superhuman again. Self-confidence surges. I see my buddy Matt. You know him, he owns an auto shop in Delray. He’s fixed your car, I’m sure. Anyway, I tell him how many reps I got on the bench with 315 lbs. and he pats my head. Gets down and blasts out 20 reps. Shit. Okay, this dude is eleven feet tall and can deadlift a Chrysler if he doesn’t have a jack around.
Wherever I go, a dose of humility seems to pop up like a crackhead asking for a cigarette.
Anyway, don’t mention yoga at the gym. I mean, I don’t recommend it. “You do yoga bro? Yeah I gotta get in there in do some good stretches man.” Nah dude, it ain’t about that. I’m on some other shit. Just look at these pants!
Practice long enough and yoga bleeds into other areas of your life though. So yeah man, it is okay to just be present here in the squat rack. I can stick with just two plates today. I’m listening to my body bro. Hey! Don’t pour your creatine on my sage dude. This area needs to be cleansed.
What? Can you work in with me? (Looks around) You’re talking to me?
Damnit. I’m losing my don’t speak to me face. For Chrissake, I may have to take my air pods out and talk to this guy between sets.
What? Can you work in with me? (Looks around) You’re talking to me?
Damnit. I’m losing my don’t speak to me face. For Chrissake, I may have to take my air pods out and talk to this guy between sets.
This is horseshit.
Okay I’ll do it.
But we’re talking about meditation.
Jai Guru Deva
Thomas Ramsburg