Yoga last night was quite possibly the most cumbersome exercise I've done in like the past...since I've moved here. Em, Kel, and I started taking classes on Mondays and Fridays at Power Yoga in Santa Monica. There are two studios, and both run on a donation system; which is great because while most yoga classes are $20 a session, I'm paying around $5 - $10.
Our class is with Mister Bryan Kest himself, and a line forms around the corner of the block, filled with people waiting to get in. They pack the old loft with upwards of 50 students, creating a sauna like atmosphere that makes your sweat glands start to work as soon as you ascend the stairs. About 30 minutes into the 90 minute class, you're sweating buckets, and praying that the man next to you doesn't douse you with his nasty, stanky sweat during the next asana (that's pose).
Last night, after 60 minutes of cobra, down dog, and warrior poses, I realize Mister Kest's voice has an uncanny resemblance to Adam Sandler's in Billy Madison. In addition to the Billy impression, he uses fuck and shit more times than I do. Which I mean come on, that's a really fucking difficult thing to do. However, I noticed last night, that in addition to the impersonation, and the cursing, our amazing yogi rhymes EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE for the entire class! It's like taking yoga with a foul mouthed Dr. Seuss.