Dear Male Yoga Instructor,
I thank you for many things this morning. First, I thank you for your beautiful physique. Although I may splat on my stomach every time we do a chattaranga, you stay strong and flexed. I'm almost positive that if I were to poke your butt at this moment... it would be like poking steel. Hot, hot steel. Not to mention that your legs, although covered by pants, are so muscular that I can see your muscle striations through the fabric. Apparently you did 2 hours of continuous flow yoga on Saturday... and I can promise you that the last thing I'm thinking about doing continuously with you for 2 hours is yoga... unless we combine the two.
Second, I thank you for your lack of accent and general absence of sappy talk. You don't tell me to send positive vibes to myself while hugging my knees in the fetal position, when you speak to all of us... it is the elegant "you all," and when you tell us that we are addicted to our senses, I actually find a little truth to it. Not once today did I feel like rolling my eyes at your naïveté, which usually is one of the largest factors distracting me from my "practice."
Finally, thank you for having the lights so dim that I could only see myself well enough to appreciate the cool shadows I was making. I look fantastic in your lighting scheme. All of the other people in the class today looked much better as well, even the mouth-breather who appears to believe this is a choral ensemble instead of an early morning yoga class. I would suggest, however that either you or I move him to the corner of the room during future sessions.
Dear yogi, my yogi, I do however have one request. Please, if you're going to turn up the heat in the room... decrease the incense. I felt like I was being embalmed.