They Make Yoga Pants for Men, Right?

"Do they make yoga pants for men?"  I found myself asking this as my wife and I stood next to our dryer, and she fished out a pair of tight-but-comfortable looking capris made out of sweat-material.  I was dressed in essentially my pajamas; green Nike warm ups, slightly oversized electric blue t shirt from EMS with a pair of hiking boots on it with the words "Hikers do it in the woods" - perfect for I felt at that moment: an outsider about to undertake a rather large step from his comfort zone.

Candidly, I had never thought of myself to be the type of person who would wind up sitting on a tiny, thin-ass mat in a room with other people with the lights turned on low and New Age music softly humming over the speakers, trying to push my (obscenely rigid) body into the shape of the letter "W."  While I consider myself to be an athlete, I never took yoga serious.

We had decided, earlier in the week, that we were going to try one of the free yoga classes my gym/health spa/beehive of obnoxious children provides on Saturday mornings.  This want came to mind after sitting thru a lecture on my "Health and Fitness" class regarding a person's level of flexibility and how that's relative to health concerns as they age. 

I do not want to be a bent, crippled, barely-ambulatory little old man at 40 or beyond.  With the level of punishment I put on my body with my endurance training, I need something to help keep my body from deteriorating faster than it already is (for instance, my left knee has really been bothering me lately, and I don't even want to talk about my feet... think "Baghdad 2003" and you'll have an idea.).

So yoga seemed like a fun idea.  Something new, something I could see and find benefits in.  But like anything I'm new to, I tend to be really awkward.

My wife has gone to several different yoga classes over the years, so she knew what she was doing.  The morning of, we arrived early with our mats, in order to get a "good spot" in the studio.  She started to get out of her clothes (a hoodie, uggs) and padded around the hardwood floor barefoot.  I stared down at her feet.

I had to be barefoot for this?

Like I said just a second ago, I don't like my feet.  Actually, I don't like feet, period.  But I'm really self-conscience about MY feet, because, well, their pretty gross.  While training for my marathon last summer/fall, I burnt out three toenails.  One grew back, the other two, on my two big toes, are... well, I can't think of a polite way to describe them.  It's just really gross.  Now, a bunch of strangers would have the pleasure of looking at my mangled, rotten feets (later that night, when I explained my apprehension to my wife, she looked at me and said "we were in a low-lit room, in the back, and you were worried about people seeing your feet?  Who are you?!).

We were alone for only a few minutes.  We waited out in the waiting area on the other side of the retractable studio wall and played on our phones while an all Kenny Loggins' 80's Movie Soundtrack (It's All Right, Danger Zone, Holiday Road, Foot Loose - seriously.  But I can't complain, since this happened, I've add a "Kenny Loggins" station on my Pandora) pumped from the speakers over our heads.  My gym (both locations) lately has been playing music incredibly loud, even when there are minimal people around.  It was 830am on a Saturday.  The only people in the facility were my wife and I, and two employees.

Soon tho, a few elderly-looking women came into the yoga room and we entered behind them, sitting on our mats while these "regulars" chit-chatted.  We stretched... suddenly I felt as if I was getting ready for some sort of competition; warming the body up to perform in front of other people.  To perform better, actually.

By 9am, the instructor, a woman named Jane who had to be at least 60, set the lights low, closed the doors and got everyone centered.  We all sat Indian-Style on our mats with our eyes closed, trying to focus, meditate, align chakras- whatever.  The low, New Age music played, inter-twine with the "Caddyshack" soundtrack just on the other side of the divider we were sitting next to.

Because of this, it was really hard for me to concentrate.  At one point, I was doing some sort of stretch wrong with my back and legs, much to the ire of my wife, who shot me a nasty look from her mat, as if to say "you look like an idiot, don't you know left from right?!"  Also, I was unaware I was to keep my eyes open during the class.  I spent probably 2/3s the class with my eyes shut, only taking peeks to see what everyone else was doing, because I didn't want to be doing something completely different and look anymore like an idiot.

The class went on for 90 minutes, it was soothing in parts; At one point, one of the students sneezed so hard it sounded like a scream, which jarred the shit out of me.  But my mind started to wander around the one hour mark (like an asshole, I had kept my watch on, and was taking glancing checks here and there); I started to think about the upcoming Red Sox/Yankees game, and essentially, this article.

I ended up leaving relaxed in the end, but not terribly challenged.  The largest challenge for me was the wafer-thin divider, as it blocked little-to-no-noise.  As the morning picked up for the gym, the lobby continued to grow rowdier; Kenny Loggins giving way to some assholes guffaw-ing it up hard a mere 15 feet away.

I've sort've come to the conclusion that I would like to make yoga a regular once-a-week thing to intermingle between my running and strength training workouts. 

At the same time, my fat, out of shape, 19 year old self from ten years ago (complete with his patchy-gross goatee and pizza sauce-stained t shirts) wants to kick my ass.  But then again, he never had a body like mine.