checking emails. Brett, opening the wrapping on a contraband coconut-covered marshmallow product and eating it for breakfast. Finally there is Afton, the punk rock pixie, a group all her own. Afton is already proving to be one of my favorite humans ever for no other reason than she seems so normal. She executes her flawless postures, rips through Esak’s additional work, and then disappears to hang out with non-yogic friends who have driven into town to visit her. All while I’m still scraping myself off the studio carpet. No alter ego ever hid their superpowers better.
I belong to none of these groups. But that’s because I don’t really belong. My morning routine consists of two parts: a bright yellow pee and a full-body panic. The two are related. First I panic because inevitably, no matter how much I drink, my pee looks like a liquid highlighter. This I take to mean I am dehydrated, so I follow my pee with a run to the kitchen to guzzle water. Only months later does a doctor explain that this supernatural yellow color is actually the result of the excessive quantities of vitamins I am consuming on a daily basis. If ever there was a metaphor for asinine American overindulgence, there I am, every day flushing away enough nutrients to abolish rickets in the third world. My second panic comes afterI have spilled water all over the front of my chest, and I realize our first class of the day is only minutes away and I haven’t eaten yet.
And then it happens to me. After closing our routines early, maybe 10 P.M., I skip my chores. It is an unexpected decision, but suddenly and vehemently, I just don’t feel like it. None of my postures are happening. My body crumples where it should remain firm and refuses to give where I ask it to bend. When I try to drink from my water bottle, it feels too heavy to lift, so I don’t bother. While everyone else is working, I slip into the shower. I let the water drum against my brain. When I go to shampoo, it takes me several minutes to realize the extent to which things have gone wrong.
I put the shampoo in my left hand like normal, but then instead of raising my arm, I tuck my chin to my chest, trying to lower my head as much as possible. I use my right hand to push my left hand up by the elbow. It happens so unconsciously that I don’t even realize the posture is weird until the back of my neck starts hurting from the tuck. I try straightening my head, but my left arm literally won’t reach up to my hair on its own. It seems to have some upper limit. As an experiment, I stop using my right arm as support. My left arm just slides off the top of my head like a slop of rope. It is gone.
Rest reveals this is not just muscular exhaustion. Use of my left shoulder has simply disappeared.
The next two days are spent in wonderment and fear at this new development. It turns out that most of my range of motion is intact. Swinging side to side, pulling weight down, scratching my right ear, and zipping my fly all feel normal. But one particular motion—it almost feels like a channel my arm cannot pass through—is impossible. As if the muscles needed there have gone blank. Lifting my arm with the elbow directly beneath the forearm—the motion of shampoo applications and water bottle to lips—is simply unavailable to me. My arm begins the movement, gets to a certain point, and then quivers. Like it has been frozen midair by a magician.
It is a highly specific and completely painless paralysis.
Taking class with this absence is baffling. Despite the limited physical mobility, every action is even more exhausting than before. Instead of a rest for the muscles, the lack of movement drains me. And the harder I focus, the more exhausting it becomes. It is frustration I am unable to put into words until I find a description by neuroscientist Richard Restak of a recovering stroke victim:
Each small gain in ability to move the limb brought with it a sense of heaviness and resistance, as if the
I belong to none of these groups. But that’s because I don’t really belong. My morning routine consists of two parts: a bright yellow pee and a full-body panic. The two are related. First I panic because inevitably, no matter how much I drink, my pee looks like a liquid highlighter. This I take to mean I am dehydrated, so I follow my pee with a run to the kitchen to guzzle water. Only months later does a doctor explain that this supernatural yellow color is actually the result of the excessive quantities of vitamins I am consuming on a daily basis. If ever there was a metaphor for asinine American overindulgence, there I am, every day flushing away enough nutrients to abolish rickets in the third world. My second panic comes afterI have spilled water all over the front of my chest, and I realize our first class of the day is only minutes away and I haven’t eaten yet.
And then it happens to me. After closing our routines early, maybe 10 P.M., I skip my chores. It is an unexpected decision, but suddenly and vehemently, I just don’t feel like it. None of my postures are happening. My body crumples where it should remain firm and refuses to give where I ask it to bend. When I try to drink from my water bottle, it feels too heavy to lift, so I don’t bother. While everyone else is working, I slip into the shower. I let the water drum against my brain. When I go to shampoo, it takes me several minutes to realize the extent to which things have gone wrong.
I put the shampoo in my left hand like normal, but then instead of raising my arm, I tuck my chin to my chest, trying to lower my head as much as possible. I use my right hand to push my left hand up by the elbow. It happens so unconsciously that I don’t even realize the posture is weird until the back of my neck starts hurting from the tuck. I try straightening my head, but my left arm literally won’t reach up to my hair on its own. It seems to have some upper limit. As an experiment, I stop using my right arm as support. My left arm just slides off the top of my head like a slop of rope. It is gone.
Rest reveals this is not just muscular exhaustion. Use of my left shoulder has simply disappeared.
The next two days are spent in wonderment and fear at this new development. It turns out that most of my range of motion is intact. Swinging side to side, pulling weight down, scratching my right ear, and zipping my fly all feel normal. But one particular motion—it almost feels like a channel my arm cannot pass through—is impossible. As if the muscles needed there have gone blank. Lifting my arm with the elbow directly beneath the forearm—the motion of shampoo applications and water bottle to lips—is simply unavailable to me. My arm begins the movement, gets to a certain point, and then quivers. Like it has been frozen midair by a magician.
It is a highly specific and completely painless paralysis.
Taking class with this absence is baffling. Despite the limited physical mobility, every action is even more exhausting than before. Instead of a rest for the muscles, the lack of movement drains me. And the harder I focus, the more exhausting it becomes. It is frustration I am unable to put into words until I find a description by neuroscientist Richard Restak of a recovering stroke victim:
Each small gain in ability to move the limb brought with it a sense of heaviness and resistance, as if the
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