So I roll into my first Yoga class. I have no idea what to wear to this gig so I go with the black wife beater, Wild Card Boxing Club t-shirt, Everlast hoodie and Quik boardshorts. You know, the height of Fashion for Yoga G Set. Or at least that is what I think it should be.
As I step into the arena, I mean, the waiting area, I see a fly girl that is as hot as the bullet that went into Abe Lincoln. So what do I do?
I go and sit next to her and say, “hello”.
She smiles and says “hello” back.
The atmosphere is very relaxed and subdued, but I get a good back and forth dialog going on with her. She can tell I am The G.
She is down. I will swoop her after class on the real.
I grab a spot in the back, just like when I was in school, because I have no idea what the f*ck is going on.
This was actually a good move because I can spock all the fly girls in the class. And it is basically all girls.
Minimal guys, only two others. The competition is non-existent. One guy is probably suspect and the other is softer than a soft serve cone in Venice Beach in August.
Street-hardened, well-traveled, International Playboys that survived The Extacsy Wonder Gang Wars, like your humble author, these guys are not.
We bust out the class, and I did pretty well actually. The fly girl teacher asks me, “Was that really your first class?”
When it ends, I feel great. I almost want to yell, “Let’s all get some cocktails and have a smoke!”, but I decide that it would be inappropriate in the Yoga Dojo.
Then the fly girl that I was talking to at the beginning of the class just gets up, rolls up her mat and splits.