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This Issue 02/12/2004

Also in this issue

• I like brothels
• That was a crazy game of poker
• Sex bomb, sex bomb, you're a sex bomb

Somebody's farting. Somebody's falling. Somebody's flexing her hips in preparation for a Valentine's rendezvous. And somebody's worshipping at the altar of a giant number three wearing a cowboy hat and taking too many happy pills.

Initially, yoga scared the hell out of me. It seemed boring. It seemed embarrassingly new age. It seemed feminine. But mostly, it just seemed hard. Really, though, can 20 million yoga followers be wrong? Yoga is a theistic philosophy from South Asia, "teaching the suppression of all activity of body, mind and will in order that the self may realize its distinction from them and attain liberation" -- blah blah blah (thank you, Columbia Encyclopedia).

But seriously. Here before you stands the embarrassing experiences of a fried-cheese-eating, caffeine-addicted, ceaselessly sleepy slug, Yogic virgin, whose previous notions of exercise revolved around the mental wrestling match over whether or not making the three block hike to Wawa for another pack of cigarettes was truly worth it. (Verdict: Only half the time. More if you throw in gummy bears and Coke.) Those seeking a spiritual immunity boost should go to Jamba Juice. Or go read another yoga article.

Downward-Facing Dog is a real bitch. (Sorry, somebody had to take it there.) Imagine having to hold an up-push-up position for what amounts to 40 minutes in a 90-minute session -- only you have to stick your bottom into the air as high as possible. Ah, the ignorant homoerotic symbolism. I am told that the posture stretches the back, opens the chest and builds upper body strength. And depending on what magazine article you read, it stimulates either the brain and nervous system, improving memory, concentration, hearing and eyesight, or the kidneys and adrenal gland, improving (I guess) urination. I also read that the canine nomenclature derives from the stimulation of the lymph system in dogs when their paws are positioned similar to the nominal yogic posture. Maybe it does all of these. It makes me feel impotent.

Never have I been so aware of my helplessness in this formidable world. My legs quiver with spasmodic shakes. My hairless arms alone produce more sweat than I thought possible of my body. The sweat floods down my arms to my already clammy hands, and I am slipping. As I gradually lose my grip, I look to my left and right and realize that no one else seems to be struggling this much. No one else seems to be slipping.

Normally, I am no sweater. But this room is sweltering. Here, at Power Yoga Works -- the studio-store on 3925 Walnut Street offering 40 classes a week at all levels -- they set the heat at 95 degrees. I am sad to learn that they use not sacred hot rocks imported from the farthest reaches of the Himalayas (because I suppose those would be really cold) but rather a basic wall-heating system.