Bend it with Baron
Here's a story with a real twist: Our reporter does a workout with yoga master Baron Baptiste

By ALINE McKENZIE/ Staff Writer

Article originally published in the Dallas Morning News, 3/12/04.

I'm proud to say that when it comes to yoga, I am a pretzel.

Unfortunately, that's a pretzel stick – hard, stiff, unbending.

So when power yoga master Baron Baptiste came to Dallas for a weekend workshop, my editor suggested I try it.

The first class was billed as "beginner and intermediate." I was dubious – even though I've done a little yoga, the description of "beginner" looked like my idea of "spin cycle."

"You're not a beginner," my editor insisted.

Gamely (which is a journalistic term meaning "your editor won"), I pull out my black leggings and T-shirt, borrow a mat and kiss my favorite joints and muscles goodbye.

The setting is beautiful: the glass-and-wood Rosine Hall at the Dallas Arboretum. More than 250 people are registered, a host of slim, wiry, mostly female bodies of all ages clad in tight pants and tank tops.

My color scheme is right, but my very non-yogic waistline calls for a Zen mind-set – nope, no chubby novice here, no sirree.

We get little goodie bags with water, a CD, teas and other treats. I wonder what the very few men in the class will do with the all-natural feminine products.

The temperature is cranked pretty high – this is the kind of yoga you do at drill-sergeant speed in a hot room – and the bodies are packed mat-to-mat. (Later, during one move, I get smacked in the head by the woman on my right, but that's the least of the evening's problems.)

Chanting, jingly music begins to play, and I do some basic stretches, "basic" as in "trying to bend an ice-cold piece of silly putty."

The women around me already are twisting into poses I can never dream of attaining, and they're just getting warmed up. They're looking forward to a session of relaxation and focus. I'm suffering from delusions of mediocrity.

"It gets very addicting very fast," says Karie Cheatwood, a 24-year-old nanny from Garland. "My back hurts so bad when I come into class, and afterward I just want to take a nap."

"I love that you can't do anything but yoga when you're doing yoga," says Melissa Silvestro, a 37-year-old software manager from Frisco.

We interrupt this class for a bit of background: I damaged my tailbone many years ago in college while playing a game that involved slipping and sliding down a long, straight hallway on a strip of heavy plastic lubricated with detergent and water.

Anyway, my butt usually doesn't bother me except in rolled-up postures such as sitting on the floor, knees up. Then it really hurts.

A minute's pleasure, a lifetime of pain. That'll be 50 cents for the life lesson, kids.

Now back to the class.

Baron enters the room, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, khaki shorts and a green bandana.

And guess what's the first thing he has us do? Yes. We all have to scootch up as close to him as we can, 250-odd people shoulder-to-shoulder, sitting knees-up on the floor.

My tailbone immediately begins barking. Great. I've just failed "sitting."
Baron asks for a show of hands for people who have never "practiced" with him. A forest of hands goes into the air.

"It's important you drop your expectations," he says. I like him already.

He's part leader, part comedian. Everyone is respectful of what we're here for, but we're also going to have a good time.

Baron is known for separating yoga from its traditional religious aspect, but he's still very big on how yoga can mentally improve a person.

"We love you, but we do want to change you," he says to more laughter. "We accept you, but not exactly as you are. That's not very P.C., is it?"

He talks of learning to respect your limits, of some of Jesus' and Buddha's philosophies, of a self-transforming life plan in his new book, 40 Days to Personal Revolution. He's relaxed, interesting and funny.

But my tailbone wants me to listen to it, not him. Unfortunately, we're packed in so tightly that I can't shift my position without bumping into someone around me. Finish, finish, finish, I think.

It hurts enough that I'm even ready to do power yoga. I'm in for a world of trouble.

And it begins.

The first hour or so is a never-ending series of low push-ups, upward facing dog, downward facing dog, jump forward, over and over, head up, head down. I won't describe the positions because if you practice yoga, you already know them, and if you don't, just trust me, when Baron says that the word "yoga" partly means "destruction," this is it.

I remember his comments about respecting your limits. My limits demand so much respect that the Godfather would be impressed. I take frequent refuge in the child's pose – or as Baron calls it, "thank God" – which is crouching on your heels and bowing forward.

Then I'm pleased to find that we're moving on to some standing poses, ones I actually know and can do. But the heat and exertion have taken their toll; I'm too dizzy to do them.

Suddenly, I remember my bottle of water. I am thirsty, but more important, when you're drinking water, you're not doing yoga. I gain valuable minutes with this tactic, then plunge back into the deep end.

We finish with some nasty abdominal crunches, then some lying-down, relaxing poses with more jingly, chanting music that almost makes up for the whirlwind he put me through.

Out of a two-hour session, I estimate that I spent about 45 minutes doing yoga, and pretty badly at that. But, hey, I did what I could.

And despite all the torment, I can feel that a tight hip has loosened a bit, and my arms and shoulders are relaxed.

I head home, a soft pretzel.