Aside from my regular job, I’m part of a work-exchange program at a local yoga studio. I’ve been committed to my practice for a year and change, and - at the risk of sounding like the yogi paradigm - it has transformed me.  I have a relationship with my mat and arrange and rearrange my schedule around classes, making time to practice my asanas, presence and meditation at least five times a week.  But I’ll save my gushing-love-for-yoga, yoga-changed-my-life post for another day.

This is just an observation about the delightful juxtaposition of the beer next door.

The neighboring business is a deli and beer distributor.  Svelt women adorned in lululemon tank tops toting yoga mats come out one door and harmoniously join the men with bottled six packs and Italian hoagies coming out the next door.

As I sit at the studio front desk, I spend most of my time reading, thinking and gazing out the window.  And every Wednesday morning is their scheduled beer delivery.

I watch the guys roll in microbrews and domestic cases alike, conspicuously peering in the front windows to the studio.  And I love this contrast of yoga and beer, together as neighbors but antithetical counter parts.  Watching flats of pale ales and stouts pass by, my lips water and I’m reminded of how much I enjoy all aspects of life.  I love microbrews and admittedly indulge in a few pints on weekends, contrary to the fundamental organic credo of yoga. Secretly, I think all yogis fancy a nip and sip of wine, or at least a light wheat beer. 

I appreciate this soft clash of culture.  Yoga is about balance, both on and off the mat.  I’ll gladly take some post-practice Dogfish to-go, and I bet those guys would secretly love to touch their toes, too.

Ahhh, the quotidian subtleties, keeping life interesting and appreciated.  And the asanas to keep us on our toes (or heads.)