Anyone who’s been there knows that opening up a yoga studio is hard work. Even before you’re forced to deal with hundreds of entitled yoga practitioners grilling you on whether or not the toilet paper in the bathroom is fair trade, there’s just sooooo muuuuuuch thought you need to put into it. Just think of all those nights you’ll stay up late thumbing through a book on Sanskrit baby names in order to find the best one to call your studio. Not to mention all those meetings devoted to figuring out the best way to not pay your yoga teachers (hint: put the word “collective” in your studio name). However, even though it’s often the most fun part of the process, one of the hardest parts of starting a new yoga studio is trying to figure out and design what the hell the space should look like.
To make it easy I’ve got a new California studio to get you inspired: “Samyama Yoga Center: A place for healing.”
Whoa! If ya ask me, “Samyama Yoga Center: A place for healing” looks a lot more like “Samyama Yoga Center: A place to snort coke off Annie Leibovitz‘s belly.” I mean, where was ya mind at, son?
Apparently, this new studio (still in the design phase, I believe) is supposed to evoke dharana (the act of maintaining concentration), dhyana (the state of conscious being), and of course everyone’s favorite, samadhi (union with the Divine). But from the looks of it, Samyama Yoga Center (“samyama” being the unified practice of the aforementioned states) seems like it’s supposed to evoke a sex club on Second Life. And, right now I think I’d rather be “makin’ samadhi” over there….
I’m sorry, but when I look at the ad for Samyama Yoga Center I don’t think of meditation or counting japa. And, I certainly don’t think of “healing.” What I think of is whether or not I’m going to have to fend off yet another blowjob attempt from Mic Jagger. What I think of is which coked-up anorexic “I’m on top of the world!” model am I gonna make off with? What I think of is a long dark metal-lined hallway where the doors to the bathroom blend into the metal so you can’t tell where they are, but when you find one and go in you end up having to call the cops ’cause of some dead yuppie laying on the floor with a needle hanging out of his arm. Come on!
But, when you look at the design from the outside you get a whole different vibe.
Gone is the “white pony” riding waif, and in is the stroller pushing double skinny latte frap mom and her annoying “boys,” Jonah and Noah. And, is that a NYC taxi in the right hand corner? Was there someone rich and ballsy enough to pay off a Manhattan hack in order to get a lift to sunny California for a noon flow class?
What the hell is going on here?!
And what the hell is going on with all this heeeeeeeealing, anyway?! Apparently, everybody needs heeeeeeealing. Everyone is broken. Everyone is a toxic waste dump needing to be dredged of all that bad bad fecal corruption. I swear, I think this generation and the one preceding it need to be dubbed “Generation Sad.” For goodness sake, just eat a little bit of food here and there, preferably stuff that goes off in a few days. Drink water, do your yoga in the morning, speak to God, and accept the fact that your body is host to as many bugs and bacteria as it is Divine Light, and when you die and the doctors need to cut you open, you’re gonna stink to the high heavens! That’s what bodies do.
Now guess who just got up on the wrong side of his snuggly nappy nap couch and is feeling all sorts of grumpy?