Women look great in yoga pants. You do not. Loose shorts and a t-shirt are where you live. This means you too, Man-bun.
In a hot yoga class, please keep your shirt on, Sasquatch.
Resist the urge to stuff your fat fuck face before class.
If you are feeling even slightly gassy, skip yoga class that day. Trust me on this.
Resist the urge to compare yourself to the women in the class who have no problem gracefully twisting their limbs into contorted origami poses while smiling. Yoga is non-competitive and women are naturally flexible. You are not. Some poses will take time and patience. I’m looking right at you, pigeon pose.
Don’t feel bad when the instructor comes over to adjust the pose you are mangling. She’s only trying to prevent you from snapping your hip out of its socket.
Schedule your kid in a kid’s yoga class while you take the adult class next door. Walking out of class to be greeted by your little one is nirvana.
For chrissakes, grab a shower after hot yoga class, Stinky.
Often you will be the only male in class. Represent us well. No staring, she knows you are peeking.
No posting pics of you in yoga poses on social media. Ever. Don’t be that guy.
Sweet Savasana (corpse pose), eases the pain.
Do a little yoga at home once in a while in front of the TV or whatever. Maybe in your next class your downward dog will look a little less junkyard dog.
Yoga is tricky for men. But I went from 80% of my body feeling stiff and sore all the time to 25%. That’s pretty good. And the mental hygiene benefits are real. Try it.
Namaste (“I bow to the divine in you”)
Yoga classes are infested with the young and the smooth. I am old, I am hairy, I am lumpy, I am wrinkly. My joints creak and pop like an old Studebaker seeking its final rest in the boneyard. And yet I Bikram right along with the best of them, downward-doggedly.