Breakdown On I-5 Part I: From The Land of Scary Yoga Teachers To Small Town California

I left Los Angeles for the Bay Area (Berkeley, Oakland, etc.) last Friday in a flurry of cray.  I tried to squeeze in a yoga class before my 6 hour drive (or, what I thought would be 6 hours) and ended up in a class with a teacher who happens to be a cult legend in Santa Monica. (I won’t say his name, but his initials are B.K.).

Since I’ve been working and performing stand up comedy, my butt has been looking less like it belongs to a salsa dancer and more like it’s sat in an office chair for a year.  (Which it has).  I looked in the mirror a few time during class, hoping that the 1.5 hour bucket-of-sweat-pouring class, might shrink or shape it ever so slightly.  I actually believe this happens.  The teacher, Mr. Cult Yoga Legend, must have noticed this and not recognizing me as one of his cult followers said at the end of the class said, “Somebody in this class has been looking at themselves in the mirror…just so you know, a nice butt won’t help our relationship with ourselves…[blah, blah blah]” and then looked right at me.  Is it spiritual to want to punch your yoga teacher?   I stopped drinking the Yoga Kool-Aid after my first year when I realized that most of the teachers in LA are recovering drug addicts with a messianic complex, but still felt disappointed….what kind of culture worships a shaming yoga teacher?  [Los Angeles].

I got on the road and managed to drive 200 miles on I-5 when my car engine died.  I take 100% responsibility for not taking my car in to be looked at before going on a 400 mile road trip.   It may not have made a difference, but would have lessened the self-flagellation.  The 5 is a scary freeway filled with semi-trucks going 80 mph and surrounded by empty farm lands.   I don’t know what people did before cell phones, which went from seeming like an albatross of modern society to a magical conduit of salvation.

AAA towed me into the nearest town, Los Banos, where I found a decent motel while I judged all the fast food restaurants. I did find a delicious Mexican taco stand.  Not a yoga studio in sight.  However, there’s nothing like being alone in a motel room in a strange town to make you honest with yourself and other people.

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“I  can drive you,” said a sixty-year-old woman standing at the counter.  She had stopped by to give something to a friend and overheard our conversation.  “I’m on my way to Pleasanton.” [SFX: Angels sing.]

She didn’t look like a serial killer and so I put all my stuff in her car and gave her some gas money.  She turned out to be super cool hip single 60-something lady who had traveled around Europe for three months and was soon moving to Mexico.  She dropped me off at a BART station and my friend picked me up in Oakland.  The mechanic who is fixing my car has agreed to pick me up at the Greyhound station when it’s ready.

I’m sorry I judged Los Banos, California as a small hick fast food town. Every encounter I had was filled with kindness and generosity.   It may have a Wal-Mart and lots of fast food, but no scary yoga teachers.

Just for today, I trust that things will be OK.