Yoga is Hot

Ever meet a group of people that and think wow, you are nothing like me? Like when I was roped into a screening of “Eat Pray Love” and had to watch everyone laugh at these terrible Julia Roberts jokes. I kept wondering, who the hell these people were and where did they come from? My guess is they live on the Peak.

Now imagine that sentiment times 100 and you can begin to describe my Pure Yoga experience. I got a pass there as a bolt-on with my regular Pure membership (as far as you know) so went to try out a “hot flow” class. According to their website, hot flow is “a Vinyasa class taught in a heated room. The heat will provide for a detoxifying sweat while you flow through a dynamic sequence of postures following your breath. “Translation: you’re sweating balls and contorting your body in crazy positions with a bunch of half-nude guys and girls. I think I’m supposed to make a joke about how it’s like sex here but I can’t bear it. I mean, a column about a traditional guy going to yoga? What is this, 1996?

The instructor’s name is Darrel and he walks in shirtless while the women—and some men—around me imagine him serving then strawberries on a white horse named “I listen to your feelings.” That’s when the fun stops and he commands us to do things no human body should do, like stand on one foot and hold the other foot out completely straight or wrap our legs around our bodies like we’re seducing ourselves in a game of personal footsie. The one pose I get is called “plank,” which is just the beginning of a pushup, but unfortunately he then keeps yelling “CHATURANGA!” and everyone dances like a snake in that R. Kelly song.

In-between poses I look around the room to see who my fellow classmates are—many who, by their own admission, have been doing it for years. I can’t actually ask them questions because Pure Yoga has a policy not to talk to anyone in the class, which probably exists either to keep sketchy dudes at bay or to prevent everyone from discussing why membership is so expensive.

The majority of the room are girls who look very, very serious about taking a yoga class, one or two goofballs like me, and for some reason, a large number of completely bald guys. I think this is because bald guys try to visually convince girls that they’re secretly very spiritual monks and therefore do yoga to add to the overall façade. It’s much more convincing than “I’m a swimmer so I shave my head” and suggesting practicing yoga together is the daytime equivalent of “it’s 2am and I can’t sleep. Want to come over and just snuggle?”

After a few rounds of poses my body starts to feel like jelly and the muscles are burning. I quickly realize I’m the sweatiest guy in the room—something you never want to be (even in sex). I towel my face, arms, and legs and keep going, leaving only a bit of sweat on the mat. However, I don’t notice the huge puddle that has pooled on the floor in front of my mat and on the next pose I overstep, slip crazily, and crash onto my mat in a very spiritual Thud!