Soft-Core Yoga

I am the black sheep of my new age generation. I was until a few years ago, a yoga virgin.

“What’s that you say??!!”

“No it can’t be!!”

“A yoga virgin??!!

“It can’t be true!!” 

Oh but it is.

Back then I was given a gift of free yoga classes for three months from someone I thought was a really good friend. Gift certificates, dark chocolate, perhaps a little tickle…that was the way to my heart.

Anyway after my second class I called one of my dude friends and told him about my experience.  He choked on his own spittle as he laughed at me. He said of course I would be the only one to have something like this happen.  Perplexed I asked if he had ever done or was familiar with what I described. All he could do was laugh harder. Really? I was the only one from my circle of my pseudo hippie friends that had been forced into pairs with bendy, perma-grin strangers? I was pissed.

Being a beginner I was not sure of the rules and etiquette of group yoga so I resorted to my childhood precautionary default, observe and behave as the herd. That approach had helped me through a myriad of awkward situations. Unfortunately that philosophy also split its 50/50 success ratio with my fleeing and running so fast that the heels of my feet would kick my ass cheeks into oblivion. Knowing my odds, I felt confident that my chances of survival and blending were pretty good. Had I known that “yoga doubles” was Hindu for self-inflicted pain of a pornographic nature I would have at the very least drank a jug of wine before I willingly agreed to be violated.

It only took a minute of mat sitting before my lotus flower innocence was stripped from me.  It began with the yogi’s overly dramatic arm flailing needed for separating the thins from the fatty’s. This was to ensure that “spiritually equal” duos worked together. As I rolled my eyes I spotted a woman floating in my direction and was greeted with a funky, musky “Namaste”.

Once we had settled in, we were given cloth bands and instructed to have one of us get into downward dog. The person standing, my new BFF was not only to wrap the band around my pelvic area and pull me back toward them forcing my feet down (imagine making an upside down "V"), she also had to place her leg and foot in between my spread eagle legs.  She was further instructed to get down “good and low” so she too could get a great stretch/work-out. (I’m not going to lie to you it was awkward and painful.  If they could scream my hamstrings would sound like Sam Kinison.)

I hadn't realized how devastating that position truly was until I was the pelvic puller. I renamed that position "eat my ass".  I was horrified.  This woman had her nose in my crack.

Next I had to continue the discomfort by getting into child's pose and having a blanket placed over me. My new lover had to sit on my tailbone, stretch out her legs and roll on top of me.  Because it bears repeating, she had to reach her arms out over her head and roll her entire hot, heavy body all over mine until she slid off. Um, ew.  It was what I imagined the reject auditions for Cirque du Soleil would look like.

I don't want to get into it, but when it was my turn to backwards spoon her she made sex sounds and whispered things like, "Oh yeah. Right there.

Ooooooo."

I know.

Finally, partner time was coming to an end. We guinea pigs were told to stand with all of our weight on one leg and to maintain balance by lifting our arms up while slowly stretching out the other leg. My smell-mate was instructed to wrap the band around the inner thigh of my lifeless leg and to slowly pull for resistance.... But when I was ready bitch! My Amazonian second half basically ripped me in two!!  I nearly died a wishbone death!! Is this how it ends?? With my conjoined twin treating me like a freaking marionette??!! I was positive that I must have looked like "Terrence and Philip".

I could not take it anymore. I had to say something so I blurted, "What the hell is this??!!??!! Human Rodeo Camp???!!!" Quiet, respectful people began shifting their eyes rapidly between the instructor and I until a chuckle broke the volley. Laughing and murmurs in hot, incensed ovens made yogi's mad. (Did you know that angered yogi’s yell just as loud as robust, unhealthy people? One should never make a yogatini raise her voice. Ever.)

I was in trouble. She ended the class early and held me back until everyone was gone. My punishment I mean “enlightenment” was learning how to hold a few gravity-defying positions with her scarily invading my personal space and whispering soul-searching text into my ear. I think I was cursed out in metaphors.

Alas, it was a gift albeit a cruel and sadistic birthday gift but a gift nonetheless and I had to go back for more punishment. I had thought maybe the next class would have us braid each other's hair while sipping tequila before being instructed to pull on it during dirty, under the blanket downward doggy style. So knowing my luck, I decided to go at a different time.  To my dismay my ex-partner glided in and sat next to me. Her bowing and salutations were interrupted by a strained, chilling greeting of “It’s nice to see some familiar faces.” 

“What’s that you say??!!”

“No it can’t be!!”

“Angry, perverted yogi??!!

“It can’t be true!!” 

Oh but it is.