As often as I practice yoga, I am admittedly not a purist.  Neither my personal practice nor my teaching style are traditional.  While I spent 500 hours learning ancient Indian philosophy before earning a certificate to teach yoga, I rarely speak Sanskrit in class because my personal philosophy is to use simple, clear language that resonates rather than intimidates.  (And equally in part because I physically cannot get through the word “tittibhasana” without having a laughing fit.)  I feel most authentic and successful when I encourage my students to listen to their bodies and celebrate their progress than I do trying to manufacture a profound spiritual awakening in each of them.  My practice incorporates sequences of high-intensity interval training set to playlists of Snoop Dogg’s greatest hits.  (Who, contrary to popular belief, was evidently the guy who released his debut rap album “Doggystyle” in 1993, and not one of Northern India’s founding fathers of yoga over 5,000 years ago.)  I lip sync my way through chants to conceal the fact that I sound like Danny DeVito impersonating a lawnmower, and I spend most of Savasana thinking about better ways I could be spending my time than marinating in a puddle of my own sweat and mascara goop.  I suppose my practice is a modern adaptation of yoga suited for workaholics, perfectionists, and overthinkers who find peak mental clarity in the tail-end of a stiff endorphin buzz.  Fortunately, I have a healthy enough ego to mitigate the flack I catch from people who say that isn’t “real” yoga to decide for myself whether they’re right.  (Which is that next level zen sh*t, right?)