Yoga and Cannabis: A Not At All Cautionary Tale
I’m not into the idea of purposely getting high for a particular activity, unless it involves staying home and watching South Park, or reruns of The Golden Girls, for that matter. (Bea Arthur’s deadpan stare never ceases to pry a chuckle or two out of me.) It’s too deliberate. As in, “Let’s get high and go to Six Flags! That would be so dope!” It also goes against my whole outlook on life. Which might raise the question, what is my outlook on life? Live and let die. Plan for nothing, and expect everything. Have more tequila, before inevitably swearing off shots, until I again come to the misguided conclusion that more tequila is the answer. But when my PRØHBTD editor forwarded me an article published on Leafly.com, entitled, “How Pairing Yoga, Cannabis, and Music Creates Positive Vibrations,” I immediately thought, “That sounds like a reasonable combination. I’m down.”
Writer Naomi Fowler attended a class in Seattle specifically “tailored to the preferences of cannabis users,” the brainchild of a YogaSmith instructor and two collaborators from dispensary Ganja Goddess, a self-described “high-end recreational cannabis store.” She describes the quiet selection of her intention and says she “spent class pursuing the spirit of that intention in the amber glow of a hardwood floored studio illuminated by soft flickering lights.” Her “nervous system was aided by rich sounds, dogs, sphinxes, planks, and the healing energy of a coconut cannabis edible and a simple topical cream,” which ultimately led her to the conclusion “that indulging a sensory-rich experience like this one lent itself to [her] lightness of being and created a powerful and deep positive vibration.”
My experience was a little different, aside from the positive vibrations. I felt those, for sure. Isn’t yoga all about embracing the moment and achieving a balanced perspective? I’m no “yogi,” but doing yoga is good news, even if I find myself glancing at the clock several times over for the duration of every class I take. As much as I love feeling all stretched out, I get antsy! I didn’t check the time once during this particular class, but that likely has more to do with the fact there was no clock in the room and not with the fact I was high. But who knows? I was going with the goddamn flow, literally and figuratively speaking. Also, I’m jumping ahead.
I don’t live in Seattle; I live in New York, where there are no cannabis-themed classes to be found, so no soothing topical cream for me. Typically, I go to Equinox because I demand only the best of the best. Might I recommend the Greenwich Avenue location for an almost-guaranteed Alec Baldwin sighting? This time, though, was meant to be a joint activity (no pun intended because that would be the lamest pun ever), and my friends settle for donation-based Yoga to the People. Trust you won’t see Alec Baldwin there.
When I showed up at Kelsey’s apartment, she gave me my pick between Super Sour Diesel and Afghan Kush. No contest! I’m all about sativa over indica. Give me Adderall over Xanax any day, unless falling asleep is the main objective. I repacked the one-hitter, sucking it with uncommon vigor to ensure I was sufficiently out of it for “my experiment,” while Philippe, Kelsey’s good-natured housekeeper, vacuumed behind me. Kelsey had already eaten a laced candy her aunt gave her, so she was good to go. We bid Philippe goodbye and rushed to the 4:30pm class on St. Mark’s Place. When we got to the building, a decaying yet innocuous walkup, a throng of NYU students were waiting outside. The class was apparently not until five. There was nothing to do but go to the Latin vegan restaurant next door, where I found myself this close to ordering the Nachos Supreme and saying “screw it” to yoga altogether. I also contemplated a glass of red wine, but then I told myself to grow the hell up and settled for a latte.
The class was jam-packed, and the teacher a gentle being with tribal-inspired tattoos and drop-crotch harem pants. Naturally, he encouraged us to not be afraid to stumble or be imperfect. Some thoughts that ran through my head as we went through the requisite sequence of vinyasa poses, from good, old downward dog to chaturanga to the whole warrior bit and back again: “Is this Portishead playing? What song was it of theirs on the Stealing Beauty soundtrack and did that movie really come out in 1996? God, I’m old because that was a hundred years ago and I actually had the compact disc. But I was only a kid then, so that’s something. Liv Tyler used to be hot. I bet she still is.” “I could hold this pigeon pose forever. Pigeons. That seagull I saw the other day pecking at a pigeon carcass on the South Side of Williamsburg was gross. But that’s the circle of life. All we are is dust in the wind. These are just the names of bad songs.” “I fucking hate the phrase ‘happy baby.’ I will always hate it.” Heavy stuff. Then again, the inside of my mind is basically a Beavis and Butthead episode on repeat, so this is a relative improvement.
I still felt quite flexible as usual, not to brag or anything, but I was particularly aware of my irritated muscles. Clearly, I don’t do enough yoga. I learned I’m not willing to rest the side of my face on a towel-free yoga mat no matter how high I am, despite the fact I’d brought my own mat. I guarantee if I were drunk, my face would have been pressed all against it, no holds barred. I also learned I’m still grossed out by the mere sight of someone’s feet in front of me, particular when they belong to a male person, with or without the addition of cannabis. As for Kelsey, she told me she experienced a cathartic breakdown towards the end of class, but it only involved her tearing up slightly because she’s been mean to her boyfriend lately and he’s a really nice person.
The verdict? Cannabis and yoga make a good couple. No big surprise there. On the flipside, for every article supporting the union, there’s one out there arguing against it. Like “Five Reasons Yogis Shouldn’t Smoke Marijuana,” which include, “It creates an illusion, and “It messes with your nerves.” It’s argued, “The feelings produced by use of marijuana is known in yoga as ‘maya,’ or a veil of illusion.” All I have to say on this matter is that it’s clearly subjective. There’s no singular recipe for achieving enlightenment, and getting there can involve yoga or cannabis or both or neither. Only you can make that call. Besides, I have no business waxing on enlightenment, as I’m far from it. Nor is there a right or wrong approach to doing yoga. Do it as high or sober as you want!
The next day, when I returned to Equinox, this time the Soho location, known for its consistent plethora of model types, I breathed a sigh of bourgeois relief. Home at last! During my 30/60/90 class, a solid 45 minutes of manic interval training, I was just grateful I hadn’t smoked beforehand. Drifting in and out of downward dog on repeat while you focus on your breath is one thing. Doing box jumps with eight-pound weights in each hand while Pitbull and Nicki Minaj remixes blast at full volume is another entirely.