Saturday night, and what did I make a reservation for? A chic café, profound play, maybe an avant-garde extravaganza? No: I committed myself to sweat through Bikram’s beginning yoga class at 7 p.m.
I know. A few weeks ago, I bragged in this blog about looking good, and now I spill the sorry fact that I ain’t got no date on a New York City Saturday night? So you’re going, like, what are you doing, girlfriend? Why don’t you have someplace better to be? Making a reservation for a yoga class? Really! Get a life!
But it was the only place I wanted to go. I was sure I would be the sole soul there and end up getting a private lesson.
So of course I found 24 other people in the studio parked on their mats. What were they doing there? How could they bear to reveal their no-date-no-life status?
Then I started looking at them, all revealed, all almost bare, the fit bodies and the unfit. All waiting patiently. All ready, pumped even. None embarrassed, not by fat, nor cellulite, not be being there. They did not seem to feel they were in the social losers’ parking lot.
The teacher strode in with a welcome, saying, “I love teaching this class because the people who are here on a Saturday night really want to be here.” Teach was right. Every person I glimpsed during practice was working hard, dedicated to improving themselves. Kind of a worthy goal, and sensible too.
Kind of cool, really, to be in the sweatbox in a Saturday night. Kind of hot, really.
So you know what? If I ever do get a date, I might suggest we make a reservation for a Bikram class. I’d get to see what he’s made of.
And hey, this is New York City–why live here if you can’t do something peculiar on Saturday night?