Yoga and The Angry Black Man

In the fall of 2002, I was 220 pounds, starting a new career as a performer, freshly dumped by my upwardly mobile girlfriend, and kinda homeless. It was a confusing, disappointing time in which I was either regretful or worried at any given moment.

Oh, and angry. Constantly angry. So very, very angry. Life after college was not going as well as the commercials and most sitcoms told me it would. There were no cool jobs with quirky bosses available, and apparently all the dope apartments with open floor plans and sick views of vibrant neighborhoods were taken. Well, my new ex-girlfriend still had the one that I found, but she said that we had to “figure things out in separate spaces.” Also, her credit was better.

Not long after I was settled into my new place with some gracious castmates, we took a trip to a big-box store to grab things for the house. On a pop-up shelf next to some ridiculously fluffy towels, I found a marked-down copy of AM Yoga & PM Yoga, a two-volume VHS (yeah, that’s right) box set from a guy named Rodney Yee. I had already tried a couple of those Tae-Bo tapes in college, so I figured that yoga was a slow version of that. As far as I could tell, it was all about stretching, and all the other things that you were supposed to do to lose weight in the late 90s required too much hip-hop in tight-fitting neon clothing. And at nine dollars, it was a solid…