Last week, I dragged...I mean persuaded, the redhead to join me in a Spin class at our local gym. She agreed, under the condition that I would attend a yoga class with her the following week. "Sure," I said. How hard could it be...a yoga class? (Y-A-W-N). No weights, no grunting, and a room full of women stretching and breathing deeply to the sounds of pretty music. In other words, not much of a workout.
Sure enough, this morning I entered a dimly lit room filled with soft music and way, way too much estrogen. I saw another guy in the back of the room and a third who arrived to class late, wearing a pink bandana on his head (no comment). With the door shut behind me, there was no escaping to the weight room.
My rude awakening hit about twenty minutes later.
There I was, stretching out along to the tune of a Nora Jones song, breathing deeply, gulping down air, sweating profusely, and desperate for mercy. The soft spoken instructor sounded like she'd popped one too many valium that morning. Thirty minutes later, I was ready to the give the "sun salutation" a salute of my own and ready to kick the "crouching dog, hidden dragon" where the sun don't shine. I collapsed an hour late, begging to be set free from the estrogen prison.
Maybe I'll go again next week.
But only if I can bring a few dumbells.
