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You Have a Fine Asana



I drove from the Valley to the beach every Friday when we lived in California.  Depending on which way the wind was blowing on the 405, that drive could take anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 hours.  I was young, wild and free (translation: I had no children) and I had found a hot yoga class that I adored in Santa Monica.  Have mat, will travel.

The instructor was incredible.  The class was free.  OK, almost free.  You were supposed to give a donation at the door.  I always gave a donation because there was some serious karma in that yoga studio and you do not want that coming back around to bite you in your high and tight yogi ass.  The crowd was an eclectic mix because...California.  There was an abundance of actor/model/dancer/currently waiters.  There were the hippy-dippy and the peace & lovers.  Young professionals, cool surfers and friendly, happy people.  It was an awesome class.

Until I saw a sight that you don't ever want to see.

I always set up camp in the way back of the room.  It was less crowded back there and this class was always packed, at least 50 people deep.  Which may never in our lives happen again because...covid.  But back to happier times.  I was warming up (translation: looking at everyone) and just as class is about to begin this guy sets up his mat right in front of me.  And then he takes off his pants.

Hey, Joe Boxer.  Whatcha doin' up there, buddy?  You're not really supposed to take yoga in your unders....

Joe was wearing the classic, old-school, pin-striped, baggy-butt boxers with the open fly circa 1990.  What is that baggy butt about anyway?  I can't figure it out.  Do men still wear these kind of boxer shorts?  I mean, if you're going to wear your underwear to take yoga, perhaps you want to make them the longer unders that are not loose and whatnot?  

I try to ignore Joe and concentrate on class.  Focus.  Breath.  Om.  We're about 20 minutes into class, everyone is sweating a ridiculous amount because in hot yoga they set the thermostat to I'm About to Die degrees.  All of the people are breathing in their own loud annoying way.  We get it.  You're Super Yoga Taker. You have to do that GIANT sucking in breath through your nostrils and that GIANT blowing out breath through your mouth.  It annoys me.  We're in downward dog.  And then our instructor tells us to extend our back leg.  I'm sure this pose has a name but I don't know it so let's call it "leg-extending asana."  So there we are, packed in like sardines, I'm practically touching Joe Boxer's heel with my hand as we're sweating and breeeeathing into leg-extending asana.

I looked up.

I didn't mean to.  I just wanted to check that I was doing it the right way.

There it is.  Joe Boxer and his balls.  Staring me right in the face.

I COULD HAVE DIED.  Did I just have to see some guy's BALLS during yoga!!!???!!

I went immediately into child's pose.  Where I stayed for the rest of class.  Head down.  On the mat.  Rest of class.

I went to the gym this morning to get my yoga on.  All these years later, I still set up my mat in the back of the room.  Class started and we got into downward dog. I did it again.  I looked up.

Don't worry.  The lady in front of me was not taking yoga in her unders.  BUT she was wearing her over washed, thread-bare, used to be black but now they're see through yoga pants.  It was a close one but she was not revealing anything, thank God. Cause I didn't want to see Joe Boxer's balls then, and I don't want to see your lulu lemon now.

Namaste.

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