Email to My Yoga Teacher

Tammy,

You may recall that in yoga class today we were doing the pose called Warrior I.  You came over to make sure my hips were straight forward.  Before yoga I didn’t even know I had hips.  Women’s measurements always have a hip number.  Nobody’s ever measured my hips and there aren’t any guy jeans called hip huggers.

Anyway, you were standing behind me trying to push my hips straight ahead.  You were able to achieve moving these newly found body parts, despite some unintentional resistance.  Now, I thought this team of teacher and student solidly had the pose.  But, you continued to hold me.  At first this was cool because I was perfectly aligned for the pose.  In yoga you are apparently not supposed to worry about being perfect or right or wrong; something about being in the moment.   As time went on, however, I felt like my leg was going to crumble and that I would fall over at any moment.  As the tremors were running through my leg, I was hoping like heck that somebody near me was a newbie, or anybody was doing something totally out of whack, so that you would have to help them.  Please!   Please!   Please!  Normally I am thrilled to have you, the yoga teacher, help me because that’s how one improves.  Well, as I was about to scream “Uncle” or “Kelly Clarkson” (a la 40 Year Old Virgin) and keel over, simultaneously losing all of my masculine chromosomes, you went to another person.  The second I was out of your sight line, I crumbled to the mat in defeat.  You didn’t see my putrid display and therefore I am, well, I can’t exactly say proud, but I am still allowed to use the men’s locker room.

I might say that if yoga wants to get more male participation, a name change might be in order.

Gary Kahn