Coming Soon. Moksha Hot Yoga. For five days I have walked by this sign that’s posted across a storefront on La Brea Avenue. What is Moksha? Is it anything like that other hot yoga? Though I’m curious, I do not investigate further. I file the information in the back of my brain under the heading “Not for Me.”
That was last year. Fast forward to now. I’m hours away from completing the seventh day of a thirty-day challenge at Moksha Yoga LA. I now know that the word “moksha” means freedom or release. Whoever chose the name knew that every name carries inherent power like a totem. This place is magic.
As soon as I unroll my mat, a wave of calm ripples through my body. This has become a daily ritual. Unroll. Lie down. Close eyes. Turn thoughts inward. Expand thoughts outward. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. With each breath, I’m drawn into this sacred space where I feel the energy of everything around me. It’s electric. I hear soft footsteps as my fellow yogis arrive. I am a yogi. Hmm. I never thought I would describe myself as such. But that is what I am now. A yogi. That among many other things. I have found my practice. I have found my mantra. Get ready. Get set. Sweat.
Some days are more difficult than others. There are the off days. Concentration is off. Balance is off. Digestion is off. Then there are the off-off days where I feel like I’m a step away from the grave. Yesterday was one of those days. I gazed at the skylights and thought of my acupuncturist who’s started to ask me with increasing frequency whether I drink. Drink as in drink drink. As in “You’ve had enough now, Miss.” The first time he asked me, I laughed. The second time I was offended. The third time, alarmed.
I am not an alcoholic. Why does this sound like a lie? Well, anytime someone says, “I am not — fill in the blank–a misogynist, a racist, a doll collector,” the listener picks up a contradictory message. Yes, I hate women. Yes, I collect Beanie Babies. Yes, I hate– fill in appropriate ethnic slur.
“So do you drink, Ngozi?” I tell the acupuncturist that I’m a teetotaler. He tells me he’s never heard of this word. At first, I think he’s kidding. Soon I believe him. English is not his first language. It’s not really mine either and it was only a few years ago that I bothered to look up the word teetotaler in a dictionary and discovered it is not spelled tea-totaler.
“Are you sure you don’t drink a lot?” I tell him my husband and I regift wine and even have a cupboard full of liquor bottles that have gathered five years’ worth of dust. Finally, I ask him, “Do I look like I drink?” His reply: “You have the tongue of an alcoholic.”
Heh? Huh? What? I take a moment to process this. Ancient memories of Organic Chemistry float to the surface like champagne bubbles. The answer hits me like a Monday hangover. I am a sugar freak. Given a choice between filet mignon and Pop Tarts, I would pick the latter. I call it the Bronx Warrior diet. So without the pleasure of drinking, I have cultivated the skin and appearance of an alcoholic. Bloated features. Open pores. Not pretty. Pass the deep-pore cleanser and ice pack.
Can sun salutations erase a lifetime of Twinkies and Mountain Dew? I’ll tell you in twenty-three days.