Yoga Stresses Me Out

I do Yoga. Any work-out that has a required nap-time at the end is okay by me. Sign me up!

So when CH approached me (and everybody else who was in the teacher's lounge, but I like to think he may have glanced a second longer on me) about his roommate being a new yoga instructor, and needing people to come check the class out, I said, "Sure!"

I figured scouting out a new class might not be such a bad thing, despite my apprehensions.

Wait. What apprehensions?

Things to know about Elsie: I have some crazy, irrational stereotypes and prejudices when it comes to Yoga. And even though I know it makes me crazy, and they can be totally unfounded, they've yet to steer me wrong. Hence, The Yoga Rules.

1. If middle-aged and older man are attending the class, try and be as far away from them as possible. Men in shorts, spandex, and accompanying grunts and groans + "flexy" positions do NOT = Zen.
2. Unless the instructor is actually from India, don't take the class if the instructor is male. It's hard for me to focus on breathing when all I can keep thinking is, "Why are you teaching Yoga, and not doing a "manly" sport?" (I know. It is wrong. I chide myself just thinking it. But, it is what I think, every time). 
3. The level of crunchy-granolaness can be determined by the level of natural human odor at the start of class. The smellier, the crunchier. Pick up your mat and find peace/serenity/enlightenment elsewhere. It is much easier to listen to the nuances of the Universe when your nose isn't shrieking in pain and abuse.

It is because of these rules that once I find a Yoga class that fits the criteria, I never stray.

Except for today, much to my chagrin. I was preparing myself for the fact that I would be taught by a man. But there was no way I could prepare myself for what actually happened.

By the time I got to the Farmington Valley YMCA, it's 5:30 in the afternoon. I called ahead, and they said that a Yoga class would be starting at 5:45. Great!

I bounce into the studio, settle my mat, and before getting into breathing, decide to get a sip of water from the fountain in the hallway. Happily, I see CH. And then, the unhappiness ensues.

Me:"Hey, you ready to start?" (I gesture into the studio).
CH: "Oh man, thanks for coming! (Insert brilliant smile). But you missed the class. Chris's was the 4:45, not the 5:45. We just finished."
Me: (Trying to play it cool.) "Oh no worries. Sorry I couldn't meet your roommate, though. Hope he had a good turn-out for his first time."
CH: "Yeah, Chris was pretty happy with how it worked out. It looks like they're giving her a morning session starting next month."
Hold up. Did CH just say "her"?

Before I could fully wrap my head around that crushing little pronoun, a living, breathing, Pantene Pro-V commercial, complete with flowing blond hair, materialized before my eyes, and playfully tossed CH car keys, with an appropriately sexy, smooth voice asking, "Ready to go?"

This Amazon was Chris? Where was the crunchy, granola, wimpy Yoga instructor I had prepared myself for?

I had imagined this:

(EEEEEWWWWWW)

And instead got this:

(

(BAAAHHHHH!!)

And like a puppy eager for a treat, CH skipped (yes, skipped) after her without so much as giving me a second thought. I got a quick, "C-ya tomorrow, Else," (a nickname which I hate) and that was that.

As for the crunchy granola instructor of my mind? He was waiting inside the class, and as I planted my sith(?) bone into the mat, I noticed the gray-balding head of an overweight gentleman in front of me, and my nose sensed the overwhelming lack of deodorant infusing the entire essence of the room.

  Karma has a sense of humor, so it would seem.