The sign said YOGA with an arrow pointing into the space between two buildings, just wide enough for two people to walk through. Another sign pointed to a door, painted black to match the walls next to it. And that's where I had class this morning.
Beyond the door was a foyer, where a bearded man sat on a stool and welcomed students. He wasn't the receptionist. He was Kevin, the teacher. The classroom was up a flight of stairs, in a room with sloped ceilings. Natural light came in through skylights and several hot fans kept the room at a balmy 90 degrees. Only 14 students and their mats fit in the room, plus Kevin, walking around encouraging us to breath in and out through our noses.
This method of breathing made it all the more apparent that this studio sits right above a Subway. Several minutes into class, the faint smell of freshly baked bread floated through the room and mingled with the constant undertones of sweat that most yoga studios have. The mixture was not as bad as one might think.
Refreshed, albeit sore, from an hour of chaturanga and downward dog, I rode the bus only part of the way home so I could stop for a much needed haircut. The lady at Studio I-90 knew what I needed as soon as I walked in. My hair was down and a little messy from yoga, and I swear she had her scissors in hand before I could ask if she had time to give me a trim.
Half an hour later, my "sandpaper" (her word) ends decorated the floor and the hairdresser could actually pull a comb through my hair without it knotting up. I felt like a new woman, in the Herbal Essences/Tresemme tossing my hair around as I walked down the street way.
Once home, I realized I had gone to two new places by myself all before noon on my day off. As an introvert who enjoys nothing more than curling up with the Trib and a cup of coffee on the weekend, I felt quite productive and guilt-free napped the afternoon away.