Mice and men

There are some weeks in which plans, no matter how well-constructed or poorly conceived, will not work out. This week’s plans, for example, began last week with early deadlines, which in any rational world, would have meant that everything this week could be early. “OK,” I declared about 10 a.m. on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, “I have Christian yoga tonight at 6, and I am not leaving this office until I write 15 Minutes.”

Ha. The best laid plans of mice and men … At any rate, I’d discovered by noon that the Christian yoga class promised on the internet at Holy Cross Lutheran Church was canceled until January. Pah. You know I split the office the instant my little plans were derailed.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, with everything late, I had to decide among a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, an essay and a yoga class. I decided this was the week I was finally going to visit the Yogic Lounge, which is operated by a couple of the area’s more accomplished and well-marketed yoga instructors and acro-yoga practitioners, Anastasia Bobadilla and Jowee Aulston, and lickety split, I had a new plan: 6 p.m. Monday for Yoga with Frances. Perfect.

When I arrived, the only person in the studio looked nothing like the photo on the website. She was kind enough to explain to me that this was Yoga for Athletes and her name was Tasha Sullivan, and she knew little about the class or instructor I’d come to see. She told me a little about her own class, and I was relieved to find out that the class did end with a savasana/meditation, which is basically my sole requirement for a yoga class to be acceptable for a Filet of Soul review. And that was good because I’d reached a point where I was feeling a little more filleted than was altogether necessary.

I could tell Tasha was not the most experienced yoga instructor I’d ever had. She made up for her lack of polish with a sort of youthful exuberance, though. She had us doing some moves that put a lie to the formality of yoga. For example, she had us explosively push out our breath: “HA.” Then it was, “HO.” “OK, this time like Santa—Ho ho ho.”

During another posture, “OK, this time when you look up, make a funny face.” When I looked up, her eyes were crossed and her tongue was out. Charming. Not to be too analytical, I would say anyone with just beyond beginning yoga skills would do fine in this class, the “for athletes” focused on a few strengthening asanas.

The whole little studio was quite charming. It reminded me of the yoga studio I attended in Montevideo, Uruguay, which also had large windows on a busy street. The Yogic Lounge had far more tasteful décor, though. The vibe was congenial, too, just a couple of friends stretching out the kinks. When we did arrive at savasana, Tasha turned down the lights and walked us through one of those sequential-steps-through-the-universe meditations: Reno, the state of Nevada, North America, the planet Earth, the sun and solar system, the universe … and back again.

Unfortunately, Tasha is moving in a few weeks, so I find myself still rather too up in the air to make a call on the Yogic Lounge. I can’t imagine I’d be disappointed, but you know how it goes as soon as plans are made.