Wiggedy wack

As promised, here's my hip-hop yoga review.

It is, in a word, bizarre. While I was trying to kick up into a forearm stand, this song was playing. The playlist ran the gamut from Black-Eyed Peas to gangster rap, and it was LOUD. So loud that I couldn't hear the instructor. Then I remembered she said at the beginning of class to not be obsessed with getting things right, to go with what your body told you-and I realized what was going on with my body, and probably everyone else's, was that ears weren't built to hear someone talking when there's loud music blasting.

I'm on the fence with this class. It felt a little white-people-dreadlocks-y - by which I mean here's a bunch of white, mostly upper-middle-class women co-opting something that belongs to an entirely different social group. Don't they have enough already? Oh, hee hee hee, pimps and hos and downward dog, we're such rebels! You know?