Does yoga have the power to be the holy grail of workouts?
We found out. Vicki Glembocki It was supposed to be the most killer yoga class of my life. That was why I traveled halfway around the planet, to India, to an ashram—an ashram!—on the banks of the Ganges, where cows wander in the road, not far from where the Beatles hung with the Maharishi, with a yoga studio whose enormous windows face the foothills of the Himalayas. But after 90 minutes, I was left thinking one thing: Yoga in India sucks. Yoga was calling to me over the past year—calling to me more than any of the other classes I’ve been taking forever. Even though I know all that heart-amping spinning is good for me, the experience is misery. But y oga? I am one of the 11.5 million American women who l-o-o-o-ve yoga. I love the cozy vibe of the studio. I love not wearing shoes. I even love being told to “breathe through my eyeballs” and “fluff my armpits.” Mostly, though, I love yoga because of how it makes me feel: lighter, taller, more balanced, less homicidal. It pushes me to try
