YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #11: "BEAUTY"
So far, from what I've observed in yoga classes three mornings a week, there are no painted or chemically enhanced ladies but for one in a class before me who appeared as somebody who would not leave the house without all paints, dyes and accouterments in place and properly situated to bring out the best in crucial areas. She appears to be around 40 and nary a hair is out of place and she drives a luxury convertible with personalized plates—in utter contrast with the Priuses and economy mini-wagons parked beside the center during yoga classes.
As for the ladies I've participated with in yoga class these last few months (possibly 90% are female), there is very little if any sign of paints, dyes, high-end accouterments nor the ironing out of wrinkles or firming up of breasts and bloating of lips common among those who fight the aging process less gracefully. None of the older ladies have dyed hair. Some of them braid their long graying hair and others let it tumble or tie it up and even the younger gals who usually have long hair show no signs of cosmetic enhancement; yet out of all these women I have recognized no frumps or those making a case against America's obsession with fashion like some of the too pale somewhat emaciated victims I see hanging out at the local health food store and cafe chomping on quinoa and kale and acai various types of what looks like puffed up or modified birdseed.
One lady, of whom I've heard about from Contessa--the high-performing yoga maven who cuts my hair--is around 80 and quite exquisite in a feminine way (she wears ear-rings) and naturally pleasant though not overly so, her silver-white hair short like a helmet, her pixie face possessing what I would describe as happy up-tilting wrinkles and lines so much the opposite of sulking down-drooping sags of a person discontented with their looks or life and needing all the cosmetic help she can get.
This elderly woman literally balances her entire body on one hand and one foot sideways and is so loose and supple that she achieves positions I can only dream of, and twice she has issued me friendly approving smiles in a chipper manner indicating all is well and possibly nothing is wrong, a refreshing perspective in my book, and I have also noticed that several ladies confide in her which, means she's possibly the sort of person easy to approach, engage and embrace and also unafraid to reach out in the spirit of support and nurturing and understanding that yoga surely teaches.
I once viewed a televised special on some sort of up-scale or more demanding yoga class spent in 100 plus heat and involving what seemed a hundred fawning acolytes led by an overbearing narcissist in a Speedo bathing suit and most of these women seemed attired in specialized possibly high priced togs shilled by yoga retail empires, and I am glad to state I have seen none of this among the women participating here, which certainly makes me feel comfortable in my thrift shop T shirts and shorts.
Several of the ladies in this class, all of whom seem around my age of 73, give or take ten years, have excellent color in their faces, and even if they are wrinkled and wattled at the neck regions they beam with a calm benevolence. They all seem to have an easy rapport and often exchange pleasantries and brief but meaningful conversations before going to their mats. Sometimes they line their mats up beside each other but soon sit cross-legged with eyes closed and it is my summation that not a few of these ladies have delved into the immersion of meditation that seems Zen-like or transcendental, none of which I understand and which I possibly need but will never adopt because I thrive on discord and tumult, which to me is so much more fun.
My mother was a woman born with what my father termed wholesome and ravishing beauty (indeed she was a show-stopper and head-turner) but she informed me early on that good physical looks was a gift and not a reward, and that it was nice to have pride in how you appeared in public, but that excessive vanity turned into a dangerous kind of selfishness. She said that everybody loses their looks at a certain time in life, and if one is not generous of heart and sensitive to humanity, God-given good looks turn sour and inevitably ugly. Mother always felt that exceptionally beautiful women were damned by the trap of unearned success that led to too much adulation and pursuit and interfered with their character building and fulfillment. She always felt sorry for Marilyn Monroe and claimed Eleanor Roosevelt with her buck teeth and gawky frame was beautiful in her own way because of her genuine compassion for and dedication to helping black people and poverty-stricken whites find a better life.
The other morning the class was packed early on with nearly 20 people crammed into the smallish studio, and a very fetching gal around 35 in pants and sleeveless shirt rushed in a few minutes late and quickly rolled out her mat and established her bolster and got with the program. It was obvious right off that she was an experienced yoga person whose moves were lithe and limber as a cats. She had long lustrous brown hair and later on, when Samantha asked us to pull out our tennis balls, I quickly surmised the fetching doll had no ball and as she rose to get one (she was about 5 feet from me) I rolled her my ball and she nodded and smiled warmly and I trekked among the bodies very carefully to fetch a new ball.
Later, after namesta, as I returned my bolster and blocks to their racks, the same lass came up and thanked me for giving her my tennis ball and said, “It's so nice to see a real gentleman.”
The lady with silver hair nodded and informed the young beauty I WAS a gentleman and then told me she had seen real improvement in my yoga and admired my stick-to-it-ive-ness. She has a face Picasso would have painted and perhaps Rodin might have sculpted. I thanked her like the humble yoga student I have become and mumbled something about having to show a little character and she nodded in the affirmative.
My mother would have been proud.
As for the ladies I've participated with in yoga class these last few months (possibly 90% are female), there is very little if any sign of paints, dyes, high-end accouterments nor the ironing out of wrinkles or firming up of breasts and bloating of lips common among those who fight the aging process less gracefully. None of the older ladies have dyed hair. Some of them braid their long graying hair and others let it tumble or tie it up and even the younger gals who usually have long hair show no signs of cosmetic enhancement; yet out of all these women I have recognized no frumps or those making a case against America's obsession with fashion like some of the too pale somewhat emaciated victims I see hanging out at the local health food store and cafe chomping on quinoa and kale and acai various types of what looks like puffed up or modified birdseed.
One lady, of whom I've heard about from Contessa--the high-performing yoga maven who cuts my hair--is around 80 and quite exquisite in a feminine way (she wears ear-rings) and naturally pleasant though not overly so, her silver-white hair short like a helmet, her pixie face possessing what I would describe as happy up-tilting wrinkles and lines so much the opposite of sulking down-drooping sags of a person discontented with their looks or life and needing all the cosmetic help she can get.
This elderly woman literally balances her entire body on one hand and one foot sideways and is so loose and supple that she achieves positions I can only dream of, and twice she has issued me friendly approving smiles in a chipper manner indicating all is well and possibly nothing is wrong, a refreshing perspective in my book, and I have also noticed that several ladies confide in her which, means she's possibly the sort of person easy to approach, engage and embrace and also unafraid to reach out in the spirit of support and nurturing and understanding that yoga surely teaches.
I once viewed a televised special on some sort of up-scale or more demanding yoga class spent in 100 plus heat and involving what seemed a hundred fawning acolytes led by an overbearing narcissist in a Speedo bathing suit and most of these women seemed attired in specialized possibly high priced togs shilled by yoga retail empires, and I am glad to state I have seen none of this among the women participating here, which certainly makes me feel comfortable in my thrift shop T shirts and shorts.
Several of the ladies in this class, all of whom seem around my age of 73, give or take ten years, have excellent color in their faces, and even if they are wrinkled and wattled at the neck regions they beam with a calm benevolence. They all seem to have an easy rapport and often exchange pleasantries and brief but meaningful conversations before going to their mats. Sometimes they line their mats up beside each other but soon sit cross-legged with eyes closed and it is my summation that not a few of these ladies have delved into the immersion of meditation that seems Zen-like or transcendental, none of which I understand and which I possibly need but will never adopt because I thrive on discord and tumult, which to me is so much more fun.
My mother was a woman born with what my father termed wholesome and ravishing beauty (indeed she was a show-stopper and head-turner) but she informed me early on that good physical looks was a gift and not a reward, and that it was nice to have pride in how you appeared in public, but that excessive vanity turned into a dangerous kind of selfishness. She said that everybody loses their looks at a certain time in life, and if one is not generous of heart and sensitive to humanity, God-given good looks turn sour and inevitably ugly. Mother always felt that exceptionally beautiful women were damned by the trap of unearned success that led to too much adulation and pursuit and interfered with their character building and fulfillment. She always felt sorry for Marilyn Monroe and claimed Eleanor Roosevelt with her buck teeth and gawky frame was beautiful in her own way because of her genuine compassion for and dedication to helping black people and poverty-stricken whites find a better life.
The other morning the class was packed early on with nearly 20 people crammed into the smallish studio, and a very fetching gal around 35 in pants and sleeveless shirt rushed in a few minutes late and quickly rolled out her mat and established her bolster and got with the program. It was obvious right off that she was an experienced yoga person whose moves were lithe and limber as a cats. She had long lustrous brown hair and later on, when Samantha asked us to pull out our tennis balls, I quickly surmised the fetching doll had no ball and as she rose to get one (she was about 5 feet from me) I rolled her my ball and she nodded and smiled warmly and I trekked among the bodies very carefully to fetch a new ball.
Later, after namesta, as I returned my bolster and blocks to their racks, the same lass came up and thanked me for giving her my tennis ball and said, “It's so nice to see a real gentleman.”
The lady with silver hair nodded and informed the young beauty I WAS a gentleman and then told me she had seen real improvement in my yoga and admired my stick-to-it-ive-ness. She has a face Picasso would have painted and perhaps Rodin might have sculpted. I thanked her like the humble yoga student I have become and mumbled something about having to show a little character and she nodded in the affirmative.
My mother would have been proud.