There is this little studio not far from where I am staying, and every time I drive past, I wonder what it would be like to go inside. To go there a s a guy, when I would perceive that most of the rest of their clientèle would be women. To go in dressed in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, when everyone else is dressed in yoga pants and fancy workout outfits. To rent a mat for a buck instead of bringing my own. To try to find a spot on the floor, without offending the existing and pre-authorized layout of regular neighbors, sight lines and alliances. To start to stretch in a way that I have never stretched before, while everyone else in the class breezes into the first position with the confidence borne of practice and the lackluster accomplishment of endless routine. To sweat – and I mean really sweat – while everyone else in the room works up a healthy glow, or at least the phony makeup equivalent. To drag my ass home afterwards, knowing both that I have pushed myself and made an ass of myself.
I know, men do yoga. And no, the Lulu Lemon gear is not a prerequisite. And yes, I know it’s not a competition with anyone else in the room, but a chance to find balance and push your body at the same time.
All that being said, I’ve never ventured anywhere near the studio, and I doubt I ever will. Their fees, reasonable for a yoga studio, are still pretty steep for a newbie who isn’t willing to pay for the opportunity to look the fool when he has already found so many ways to do it for free.
Am I missing out? Should I man up and try yoga?