Because I have BALLS! That’s why!

Despite the familiarity of walking into the cool and dark studio classroom, the nervous anticipation began to build up in the pit of my stomach.  Unraveling my yoga mat with a snaPPPPPPPPP that broke the calm serenity of the empty classroom, the mirrors on three sides of the room revealed the nervous reflection of a yoga student who has not attended a Hatha yoga class in about a month. 

 

As a result of class schedule shifting, I have not been able to attend a Hatha class for a few weeks.  The Thursday night slot has been available for ages.  But alas, the SCA tends to eat up my Thursday nights on a regular basis (damnit!).  Thus, the intensity of my workouts has decreased while the tightness in my work slacks has increased (damnit!)  Earlier in the week, I noticed that a Wednesday night yoga class had opened up – Hurrah!  Now the question remained – do I still have the ability to be pretzel boy to the same degree that I was just a few months ago?  Time would tell.

 

As the classroom began to fill, I sat on my mat in half-lotus trying to calm the anxiety that churned in my gut.  Fear of the unknown has the power to summon a full-blown panic attack in my utterly neurotic body.  In my head, I repeated my calming mantra – “Ohmmmmmmmmm.  Ohmmmmmmmmm.  Chill-the-f$*%-oooooooooout!!!!!!!!!!!  Ohmmmmmmmmm.”  Just then, an unnaturally thin and pixie-like, janet-planet, tree-hugging, granola-girl-looking chickie walked into the room.  Clearly, she had to be our instructor. 

 

Pixanne (not really her name, but it should have been), made a bee-line for the sound system and began playing a nice CD of new-age music before beginning the class.  Despite the fact that she used a headset (a cardinal sin in my book when it comes to yoga classes), she managed the volume and the pacing of the class very well, guiding us slowly through the class to build up heat prior to moving to more intense moves. 

 

For the most part, I do not notice much difference between male and female instructors.  However, there really is a lot of truth to the stereotypical yoga instructor.  Most of my instructors *may* have a little bit of belly-pudge, but most are unusually thin and somewhat ethereal.  Most tend to be dead-pan calm and serious in their pooh-bearish zen-like mannerism.  Most don’t judge, but they have the look.  You know the look.  Yet, there is one key-critical difference between the male and the female instructors.  Male instructors do not encourage the class to do things that damage our most important parts.  Female instructors… not so much.

 

As the class held in Tabletop, where you start on your back with knees bent and your hands by your side and then lift your midsection up, balancing on your feet and hands, Pixanne encouraged the class to shift from having our legs spread to locking our knees together for added intensity.  While I appreciate the fact that the added intensity would burn more calories, I chose not to do said adjustment.  Why?  Because I have balls!  Ladies, you have nothing to go CRUNCH!  Men, I’m sure you understand.  Once in tabletop, there is just no fathomable way for a guy to slowly close his knees without adjusting.  How am I supposed to adjust?  If I move my hands, I will go crashing to the floor.  Sorry Pixanne… I’m not blowing you off.  I just value my parts far too much.

 

Later in the class, we found ourselves standing and slowly lowering into chair pose.  Balancing carefully with my arms up in the air, knees bend (and spread apart slightly), and on my toes, I listened as Pixanne once again encouraged the class to increase the intensity by closing our legs and locking our knees.  Once again, I watched as the women following instructions, and the men carefully avoided doing it.  Well… most of the men.  Every now and again I noticed a new face that would begin doing as she said, only to stop, wince, and return to his original position.  “If you can, try building up that intensity,” Pixanne would say.  “Oh yah…” I thought to myself.  “That’ll build up intensity all right!  Intense PAIN!”  Again, later in the class, I heard that all-too-familiar bit of encouragement, “for added intensity, lock those knees together!”  In my mind, my standard response began to build, “Bite me, man-hater!” 

 

At the end of the class, I found myself with the rest of the class in a sweaty pool on the floor, enjoying the relief that comes with Corpse Pose.  My stomach subsided from its earlier churning, relieved that I had completed the class.  All in all, a pretty good class… if you overlook the genital torture.  Hurumpft!