The yogiggles

Yesterday morning, before I realized I was too sick to function, I went to yoga.

Normally the class is taught by a competent if a bit chatty Puerto Rican gal named Federica. I did question some of her music choices (yoga to Gwen Stefani? really?), but her class was challenging and the style I like.

I hadn't been to this class in about 3 weeks. Apparently Federica has been replaced. I thought at first he was a sub, but the other class members seemed to know him.

This was my first experience with a flamboyantly gay yoga instructor.

Picture a fit, tan, younger Dave Foley (not the pasty, bloated Dave Foley that clearly spends too much time of late drowning his sorrows in dank Vegas lounges) in a sleeves-cut-off t-shirt and tight sweats. He sounded like Dave Foley. Hell, his name was Dave.

I had high hopes for Gay Dave. The gay aerobics instructors I've had in the past worked me like no other. But I soon realized the perils of attempting a serious yoga practice when the already suggestive terminology is enhanced by the effeminacy of the yogi.

It started with a pose where we were supposed to squeeze our knees together as if we were holding a ball between them. "Squeeze that ball between those legs!"

I smiled.

We went on to a leg stretching pose. "Let's get some gluteal action!"

Hee.

We were met with a giddy "Oh, yay!" whenever the entire class achieved perfect posture.

But the climax came when he led us into downward-facing-dog. What was his cry of encouragement, you ask? "Send your buns to the sun!"

Overall, his class was not really for me. Too much stretching; not enough strengthening and balancing. It's really too bad, because I don't think I've ever found physical activity so entertaining.