When I started the drama program at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, I was placed in the Stella Adler Conservatory. Run by Stella’s previously heroin-addicted grandson and staffed by an assorted array hippies and uber-talented oddballs, my first step into those classrooms was the moment I realized I was definitely not in the midwest anymore. This place was my OZ.

Along with scene study, improv, and voice training, we had a class in our schedule titled “Movement.” Were we going to be taught how MOVE?? I’d been moving around pretty decently for 18 years so I figured I could ace this class. I was wrong. As a part of this “Movement” class, we all had to line up in rows and then begin putting our bodies in a series of utterly bizarre postures that sometimes ended with my head in another students butt. We weren’t really “moving” so much, so I thought “This is a sham!” But oddly, after just holding our bodies still in weird arrangements on the floor, I would be sweating and my muscles burning. After this torture series, the class would then begin studying body expressions and how to move about on stage. I never knew the name of this torture series we began with, or that it even had one. Till a couple of years later I took a class outside of the school that was exactly the same, and titled:

YOGA.

I’ve now been doing this yoga thing consistently for over 4 years. The oddballs at Adler were right, to be a good actor you need to be in control of your body. I’ve taken classes in all different styles, have studied on both coasts, and am at the point where I feel a bit homicidal if I don’t go at least twice a week. But of all the teachers I’ve had, one still rises above all others. Her name is Lila. And she molests me. And I love it.

There are 3 types of yoga teachers:
1. Hippy earth-muffins “Feel the light rising out of your perineum…” (Dude, my perineum does not shine any light that I’m aware of.)
2. Exercise freaks who’ve been converted.
3. Former dancers.

Lila is the last of those 3, an important prerequisiteThe hippies who have you meditate for half an hour annoy the shit out of me. Firstly, I can’t do guided meditation. Secondly, if I came to your class to get a physical workout, and I’m not getting that, my insides will start shaking. I have A LOT of energy and tension to expel that you singing “Chanti-chanti” will not rid. The exercise freaks are just as bad. You’ll always get a good workout, but they miss the mental factor altogether. One such teacher I’ve studied with instructs class with a damn microphone! Also, they’ll do sneaky things like “Lower from plank to chaturanga, now push up back into plank, now lower back to chaturanga, now push up into plank…” Excuse me, but that would be a push-up. And I don’t do push-ups.

The former dancers strike just the right balance. They are in extraordinary shape yet posses a gracefulness and artistic flair that make you feel like you’re not at the gym. Dancers are kooky by nature, so they get into the spiritual aspect just enough to get you out of your frustrations. And, most importantly, they are experts at injuries. Every dancer I know has thrown their back out and sprained their foot, so they know how to keep you from doing it.

Now about this aforementioned molestation. Yoga teachers molest you. It’s part of the job. It’s jarring at first, but you grow to crave the moment this near stranger grabs your ribs and twists them to the ceiling, or puts her hands between your thighs and rolls them outwards. And Lila is the best at it. One slight contortion from her and my body is in a position I never thought possible (and sometimes can’t get out of.) But as you can imagine, this is an area where many yoga teachers fail.

I was in a class at NYSC about 3 years ago. The teacher was a gay male, who’s yoga type I couldn’t immediately discern. He had the tight little bike shorts on, his package bulging out like bag a small bag of veggies, and nothing else. That’s fine, it’s hot in there. About 20 minutes into class I’m holding warrior one, and my hips weren’t facing front like they should be. I got some tight hips. So the teacher stands behind me, straddling my back leg, then grabs hold of my hips and twists. I’m about to loosen up into the pose, when a revelation occurred. “HIS BALLS ARE ON MY ASS.” There were only two pairs of very thin shorts separating ballsac skin from ass skin. It would take 15 hours of sun salutations to loosen up after this situation. And what could I do? Say “Excuse me sir, could you please take your testicles off my butt cheek? Namaste!” I don’t care if the guy is gay, it’s nasty, so from here on out, try to stick to female yoga teachers. If someone is going to put their mula bandha anywhere near my mula bandha, it better go in instead of out.

Back to Lila. I’ve been taking her class for nearly 3 years now. At first I couldn’t do anything. Seriously, my fingers were a good foot and half from touching my toes. Now I can grab those bitches and pull down like I’m going to make out with the floor. I could probably bite my own toenails if I wanted to. I can hold crow for a good 2 minutes, wheels for about 5. I’ve even gone up into forearm stands. And none of this contortionism would be possible without the lovely, funny, and ass kicking Lila.

I ran into her at a party once, which was a somewhat awkward situation. Firstly, I’m thinking “You wear clothes?” Secondly, we’re chatting over drinks and I realize “You’ve had your hands between my thighs!” And thirdly, it’s intimidating to have a social conversation with someone who you’ve seen put their legs behind their back.

Her class is a bit far from where I live, so Lila gave me a Shiva Rea dvd to work from at home. Shiva is a TOTAL FREAK! I love her! I think this woman is made of rubber. When I do the workout, Mike just sits on the couch and watches, occasionally saying things like, “Wow, I bet she can lick herself.”

In fact, dear Shiva lives out here in California, where I am currently staying. I wanted to sign up for her class to see if she really does those things or if it’s the trick of a fancy editor, only to find out here classes fill up months in advance. These people in Cali take this shit VERY seriously. Yes, it’s different out here. There are the good and the bad, and the bad are where the differences are most pronounced. One woman, who is a yoga teacher type 1, said the class would begin with some chanting. I close my eyes and prepare to belt out my best “ohm” when suddenly she begins one of those absurd and impossible “chanti chanti” songs. Madonna already covered it, hon. But not only is she chanting this song, she starts playing the drum and proceeds to SING FOR HALF AN HOUR. Here I am sitting on a mat wearing sweats, listening to a damn CONCERT. I seriously almost got out my lighter at the end.

Yes, kids, I’m in LA again. Brain-freeze and emotional meltdown caused by smog and UV rays has slowed my prose writing speed, but I come to you with more tales of the West soon. Very soon. I promise you.

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