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Hey Mr. Lonelyheart, this ain’t no disco.
Not too long ago when I was at a certain L.A. yoga studio, a young girl who was new in town was signing up for class.
And here comes “that guy,” the one who’s always chatting up the hot chicks at yoga while he stands a little too close and somehow always forgets to put his shirt back on after class. He’s the guy who just loves to kiss you after a super sweaty flow—on both cheeks, because it makes him look worldly—and has zero sense of personal space.
When you ask him how he is, he says “I need to get laid.”
Dude, really? That’s appropriate.
I saw it coming from a mile away. Our friend undoubtedly sensed fresh blood was there from all the way in the yoga room. The class was barely over when he stepped out (first, out of 17 people) and slithered right up next to the new girl. Here it comes. I couldn’t watch—but I had to.
He introduced himself.
I do believe when guys do this right off the bat, it’s a well choreographed technique to come off as gentlemanly. and to catch the winsome, naive girl of the moment off her feet by appearing old fashioned. Half James Bond, half Dr. McDreamy.
She smiled. It was a very sweet, shy little smile.
I do believe she didn’t know what else to do. She had that corn-fed midwestern look, the one that says “My daddy warned me about city folk.”
He asked her out for a cup of coffee, and whipped out a business card seemingly from nowhere. Honestly, I was under the impression nothing came between him and his girly pants. At least he came prepared. She politely took it, and went off to class. Awkwaaaaard.
I’m. So. Uncomfortable.
Listen boys, yoga rooms are about 80% women, but I’m guessing you already knew that. That’s four chicks for every guy. Like Sister Wives. But the yoga studio isn’t a nightclub, or some kind of stud farm, or a place to drool over girls in tight outfits while you wait for a glimpse of side boob.
I know it’s confusing… there’s music, it’s sweaty, it’s fun and toward the end the lights are low, just like a bar right before the 2:00am hour. Pheromones are flying all around. Everyone is on that certain high, that earthy, zen high that makes you suddenly see others in a different, very radiant light. You’re feeling bendier, unrestrained and uninhibited. Remember the last time you took ecstasy? It’s like that; it’s like disco fever, without the glitter or Andy Warhol. (Sadly, there might still be some spandex.)
This could be all be very dangerous, considering you don’t even know if you have the wherewithal after class to get behind the wheel and drive home under the influence of all that breath awareness. But before you make any bad decisions, drink a cold-pressed juice and simmer down for a minute.
I think I might be speaking for a lot of women (and men—I know how you guys feel when we generalize) when I say when I’m on the mat, I’m in my own little world. I love it. If Sting was practicing right next to me, I probably wouldn’t ever notice. But when someone moves toward that space of beautiful, swirling, life affirming energy I’ve worked so hard for, I’m tempted to revert back to my bar days and “fake-name” them, if only I could get away with it.
If you ever hear anyone call me Elizabeth, now you know why. Elizabeth is scrappier and way more mouthy than me; she’s from New York. Elizabeth flips people off and doesn’t take shit from anyone.
My point is, hooking up at yoga went out with Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical.” I just don’t need to hear your body talk while I’m moving with my breath toward Krishna consciousness.
And no matter what your game is, I have a few little no-no’s:
>> Please, no hugging. My husband doesn’t like it when I come home smelling like other men. Either does my dog, come to think of it.
>> If you’ve seen one ass, you’ve seen a thousand. Stop staring, those pants she’s wearing aren’t that see-through after all.
>> I’ve never been to naked yoga. Please stop with the “artsy” Instagram photos.
Dudes, we love you. We love your physical strength and ability. But if we wanted you to ask us out, we’d be crashing your poker night, wearing high heels and sexy lingerie and offering fresh, warm donuts. You’ll know.
I don’t know whatever ended up happening with our friend, if she called him, or if they ended up seeing each other in a social capacity. Maybe they became yoga buddies. Nothin’ wrong with that.
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