Yesterday, I took an advance Yoga class. I am by no means advanced, but it was all they were offering.
As the “practitioners” arrived, I immediately started people watching (stereotyping).
First there were the Trophy Wives. Most have McMansions in the suburbs, and have long blond hair pulled back with a mod printed headband. Perfect bodies, boobs that don’t fall to the side when they lay on their backs, are wearing $150 t-shirts, and carrying X-large Chanel bags. They carry their money on their arms.
Next I saw, what I will call the Limousine Liberals. These women are city dwellers, attempting to be the antithesis of the Trophy Wives. They had careers before having children (unlike the Trophy Wives), but now “choose to stay home and make the sacrifice.” They deem themselves intellectuals and hold all of us to the high standards that all humanitarians should strive for. Quite often they will mention their previous careers in hopes of still being able to gain a little bit of credibility. They dress like they are going to an outside music event, yet have the tell-tale signs of wealth. For example, one woman had on a marathon t-shirt, baggy black athletic pants, carried a hemp-like bag with strings hanging from it, and had on diamond earrings that had to have been a total weight of at least six carats. These women probably feel some guilt or shame from having money, but aren’t able to make the full plunge into living a non-material life. I suppose that some would call them blazing, liberal hypocrites.
Then there were those that still live in the 60s. I will call them the Hippies of Past and Present. They are committed to living in the modern world of today while still living in the past. These women who have very short hair, dress like the Limousine Liberals, but worse, and rarely speak to anyone. Upon entering the studio, they bow to the instructor, sit on their mat, close their eyes, and attempt to become one with the universal energy. Their children are grown. Many are writers, organize fundraisers for non-profit organizations, or are professional volunteers. They pretty much despise the Trophy Wives, and look at the Limousine Liberals as misguided humanitarian wanna-bees.
Occasionally in this heated hen house, there will be a rooster. The male yoga practitioner.
Yes, I know that men have been practicing Yoga for centuries, but not in Minnesota and not during the work day. Yesterday we had one. He had little body hair, wore a baggy t-shirt, and positioned himself directly in front of the instructor. A typical rooster positioning tactic. One must always be in full view of all females in order to display his skills, hence worthiness as a mate.
So the class begins with some controlled breathing exercise ... Breath in for seven counts ... hold for eight counts ... and exhale for four counts ... Breath in for seven counts ... hold for eight counts ... and exhale for four counts.
On the second exhale, I heard a strange sound. It sounded kind of like a cow going into gastric distress.
I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, but then I realized it was the rooster.
He was exhaling so fiercely that the sound being emitted from his throat was just awful. I tried to block it out of my mind, but then it started sounding like a moan. And, now my mind was running away with it ... and it was sounding like a sexual satisfaction moan.
The visual of this man having sex and making this sound was horrifying!
I felt violated, disgusted, and angry. How dare he make such a show of his breath. How dare he distract me, and everyone else from our peaceful place.
For the rest of the class, I spent more energy attempting to block him out than focusing on my poses.
