"Ohmmmm"

The art of yoga has long been celebrated for its positive effects on the mind, body and spirit. From the obvious (improved flexibility, muscle tone, relaxation) to the not-so obvious (massaging of internal organs, increased awareness of an impending disease, certain sexual benefits), it’s allllll good. I, myself, have become quite addicted to the ancient art, and in my trips to the Petri dish of humanity we call the yoga studio, I’ve made some observations.

If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.

Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.

The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.

Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.

For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).

Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.

Namaste.