I’m an Athlete But Yoga Clearly Isn’t My Sport

Welcome to my latest publication of Domestic Chaos Theory…

My wife and I both decided to get into yoga. Shortly thereafter, she burned through our entire yoga budget by purchasing a membership at the elite “Soul of Yoga”. That left no money in the budget for me. So, I now just do my yoga at my gym, LA Fitness. Let’s be clear. LA Fitness is no “Soul of Yoga”. Our coolers aren’t filled with chai tea. We don’t get hot towels. We aren’t serenaded by a choir of eunuchs. And we don’t get our own yoga grief counselors. Instead, we do yoga in a room where you can hear the toilet flush.

When I do yoga, it’s not pretty. I’ve been told that watching me do yoga is like watching a stork with degenerative muscle disease pass a kidney stone. On top of that, the women in class keep giving me the stink-eye. Maybe it’s because they think I’m checking them out. I’m actually just trying to learn how to do the poses. (Was I supposed to study the Wounded Peacock pose before class?) Or maybe it’s because I sweat like an ice sculpture in Haiti. Let’s put it this way. There isn’t a lot of demand for my yoga mat once I’m done with it.

Having said that, I love my gym. What it may lack in terms of amenities, it makes up for in character. We’re like the island of misfit yoga toys. That’s a good fit for me. When I do yoga, I look like a lopsided stork with a gland problem. But I’m not the only odd-ball. There’s also “The Groaner”. She literally can’t do a bind without fantasizing about Ryan Gosling. Then there’s “The Stripper”. He comes in a sweatsuit, goes to the back corner of the room and then peels down to a Speedo. Dude, there are mirrors everywhere. We can see you! Finally, there’s “Ancient Korean Guy”. (I know he’s Korean because he told me he’s Korean.) He is the best! He ALWAYS walks in late to class. I’m guessing his spatial recognition is off, because then he literally drops his mat on top of mine. In a room that’s so cavernous it could easily host a tractor pull. After that, he opens his backpack and proceeds to dump out everything he owns. Then he just starts talking. During class. No filter. Hilarious. His poses are also fantastic. He kind of looks like a broken paper kite that got stuck on an electrical wire. Or maybe an origami bird crafted by someone with palsy. But that isn’t all. The best part comes at the end of class, when Ancient Korean Guy does his corpse (final resting) pose. I haven’t yet seen a substitute instructor who didn’t panic and take at least take a couple of steps toward the wall-mounted defibrillator.

MY WIFE’S POV

My wife doesn’t have all that much to say about my yoga addiction, other than the fact that she’s thankful to get me out of the house on a regular basis.

She did want me to point out that the fact that I choose to do yoga in the greasy recesses of LA Fitness (don’t even get me started on the sauna) is completely my own fault, since I can clearly afford to do a normal yoga class at a place like The Soul of Yoga if I so desire.

While factually correct, spending real money simply to work out runs so counter to my internal programming that I just can’t do it. She’s fine with that. More money left for her.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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