Yoga, But Make It Capitalism.

 Time... Is my currency.

And I never feel like I have enough. 

It slips through my fingers like it has somewhere better to be, so I have built a life designed to protect it. Optimize it. Hoard it like a dragon with a minimalist streak.

Mostly. 

(We will not discuss my recurring delusion of "just five more minutes to analyze this," which somehow transforms 4pm 4:45pm at the end of a work day.)

I have a top-notch gym I have built in my house. I have a pool. I have a sauna. A cozy television room. An office designed for deep focus. 

I even own absurdly good coffee and espresso machines so I never need to leave for caffeine, even though there is a cafe five minutes away. I go maybe once a week now. A dramatic lifestyle shift from my forner big-city self, who treated coffee shops like field offices.

I am selective with my social life. That part isn't new. As a life-long introvert, human interaction has always been energizing in theory and depleting in practice. 

And for the record, they are building a Trader Joe's two blocks from my house that will open later this Spring.

Time is my bitch.

Well, not quite. But we're in negotiations.

The only thing that truly taxes my time is yoga.

Teaching it. Taking it.

I love teaching. I deeply resent the eight-mile drive to the studio. On a good day, it's 15 minutes. On a normal day, closer to 25 minutes. 

And when you do the math, it's hard to ignore:

• 30 minutes to drive there
• 30 minutes to arrive early, greet students, prep the room, do the side work
• 60 minutes teaching
• 30 minutes waiting for students to leave and cleaning afterwards
• 20-25 minutes to drive home

Just under three hours.

For $50.

It roughly $17 an hour for my time. About $1 more than minimum wage per hour in Arizona. 

(I am actively questioning this life choice. But I will save that for another post.)

Because the studio is so far away, I have no desire to drive all the way over there in order to get my own practice in. 

When I first moved here, pre-pandemic, there was a proper Bikram-style studio that was less then 10 minutes from my house. Like a number of things, the pandemic caused it's closing. 

Since then, I've been bouncing from studio to studio, pretending this was temporary.

It isn't.

So I finally accepted the obvious solution: take my practice into my own hands, and not go to a studio.

In summer, I can practice outside. Tucson provides the heat and humidity free of charge. 

But from September to mid-June, I need a hot room. And while my sauna almost works as a solution, it doesn't provide me the ability to fully lift my arms up for certain postures. This feels like energetic sabotage.

So I joined a fitness studio that a five minute drive from my house. It costs me $50 a month. The entire place is filled with oversized saunas that you can workout in. 

Some have rowers in them. Others have bikes.

I use the empty yoga/pilates ones. 

I turn the temperature up to 130 degrees, mute the pre-programmed 45 minute class on the TV. Blast my own playlist from my phone. 

Then I run through the full 60 minute sequence I teach.

In 35 minutes.

I hold the postures the same length. Same breathing exercises. Same sequence.

I just don't talk.

No coaching. No resting. No savasana.

It turns out silence is a performance-enhancing drug.

Door-to-door, from leaving my house to walking back in, it takes under an hour.

It is efficient.

It is ruthless.

It is deeply satisfying.

And for once, time and I are on the same side.