Ego Yoga

I walk into room and six women stare at me from the floor. I smile awkwardly and turn to grab a strange foam mat laying haphazardly to my right.

“We usually use the big mats against the wall,” a short, older woman tells me.

I thank her and head over to the big mats.

“The instructor unlocks them once he comes,” she says as I stand there considering the lock guarding the precious yoga mats.

I assume the mats need to be bolted down because this class is at the University of South Florida rec center, where broke undergrads may be inclined to steal the black slabs for added bedding, dorm room area rugs or nouveau sleds (even though it never snows in Florida). It’s the first time I’m attending this class, and this mamacita has made it clear she knows the ropes. I regret not bringing my own mat (I have three in my car) but the trek across the ninth largest campus in America wasn’t worth being late to yoga.

This is how it goes in many yoga classes. The students who’ve been there a while relish the seniority they feel in the room — and they want to make everyone else know they’re no downfacedog virgin. Of course, I’ve just established myself as the newcomer, fumbling with the whole imprisoned mat situation, which pisses me right off because godamnit, don’t these inflexible muscle spasms know I’m a yoga teacher?

And there it is. Ego in the yoga studio.

Now, where to sit. This may seem like an insignificant thing, but trust me, in the world of group fitness it isn’t. I’ve gotten into unspoken zumba battles when other students have cha-chaed their way into my personal space, fighting for prime mirror real estate. It is vicious on that hard wood floor.

If I sit up in the front, I’ll look arrogant because they now all know I’m new to this class. And I surely don’t want these strangers to think that I think I’m better than them, even though a deep dark part of me, that I don’t even want to admit to, does.
That’s the bitch about Ego; it exists underneath the surface, just out of sight or feel. It’s the skein rooted in our nerves that makes us want nice clothes, a nice car, a nice lover who loves us for all the wrong reasons. So I sit in the back corner, as my own personal ‘new classmate protocol’ dictates. I intend it as a sign of respect, a deep Japanese bow to the other warriors, especially mamacita who’s already established herself as the guru, the one who belongs.

The instructor is late, and no one is stretching out before the class, as most of my own students will do. I’m a bit tight, so I start doing some simple seated stretches, making sure I don’t look like I’m showing off even though my dandasana is oh-so-deep. (But don’t be mistaken, I’m no yoga pro — my salamba sirsasana is nonexistent.)

For many of us, Ego is a constant internal struggle. We don’t like feeling unimportant, or even worse insignificant, because Ego is rooted in Pride — my precious pride! I keep thinking, ‘Check out my sweet spinal twist!’ This is when I have to mind-slap myself. Thwack. Forget those superficial thoughts, Melissa! ‘But I’m wearing my awesome new yoga pants!’ Smack. Nobody cares!

During the class, which focuses on retreating into the deep, expansive inner space, my brain keeps buzzing back to the other students. Do they see my fantastic posture? I keep mind-slapping myself, and am floored at the vice-grip Ego holds upon me. I invest so much time and energy reading about these various emotional states, and I’m quite aware of them, but yet still not strong enough to relinquish the Ego.

The saddest part is that this is all going down in a yoga class, where I’m supposed to train my frenetic, material-based mind to tune into my own inner wisdom. I am slowly, very slowly, tapping into the part of me that knows it’s poisonous to care so much about what the other yogis think of me. As the class continues, the lights dimmed to deter any Ego-based glances around the room, I feel the knots in my brain untangle. I detach from my clinging “me-ness” and reconnect to that space that knows it’s all ok; that I’m imperfect and perfect at the same time, just as everyone else here, and everyone else everywhere else, too. Who cares about my awesome new yoga pants.

I suppose that’s why it’s called yoga practice.