Common Ground: Down Dog!

October 2007 | Life, the Universe and Everything

Down Dog!

True confessions of that lone guy in your yoga class

by Michael Stusser

I was trying to stay focused — tame my monkey mind and concentrate on the lunge at hand. Really. But the woman in front of me was a dead-ringer for Halle Berry: honey-toned skin, sparkling teeth, hour-glass figure. Drishti! As we set up in Warrior, I noticed a tattoo at the small of her back. Focus! Then came the forward bends.

Not to sound like a sexist yogic pig, but I’m the only guy in my yoga class, and at times I find it challenging to ignore the fact that I’m surrounded by people of the opposite sex, lunging and thrusting and breathing heavily. The ancient Hindu text Upanishads describes the mind as a chariot being dragged around by a team of wild horses that need to be reigned in hard. I think my horses are those Clydesdales on the Budweiser commercials.

My yoga teacher Dawn has a great way of addressing the distracting streams that jump into consciousness during class: “If thoughts come to mind — stuff that happened at work, the traffic noise on the street, what you’re going to eat for dinner, or a really cool sweater you saw at Urban Outfitters — take notice of them as a part of your universe, an indicator of where your mind is at that moment, and then let them flow by. Don’t hold on or let them take you away from your practice. Thoughts come and they go; let them pass.”

And I try, believe me. Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at maintaining my focus and rising above my carnal instincts — becoming a better, more sensitive man. I don’t stare (even if I’d like to), I avoid eye contact and I make sure not to fall on anyone — unintentionally or otherwise. I’ve also done a decent job of not breaking the unwritten rule: “Though shalt not hit on fellow yoga students or instructors.” Still, at times, I could use a little help in locating that quiet place in my mind; taming my testosterone; helping train my third eye from wandering over to one of the gorgeous yoginis to my left and right.

Perhaps a few new yoga rules are in order: non-sexual sutras — to aide the easily distracted and oft-attracted practitioner such as myself from sneaking a peek and losing non-essential cynosure. For starters, I’d suggest the issuing of full-length body suits, along with mandatory socks, gloves and face-guards. Partitions between students wouldn’t be a bad idea — or at the very least, a minimum mat distance to ensure at least an arms-length between fellow yogis at all times. And partner yoga or those Bikram sweathouse classes — fuhgeddaboudit! Most importantly, the Yoga Imperial Karma Enforcement Society (YIKES) should implement a rigorous screening process whereby teachers may not resemble Jennifer Lopez or Salma Hayak or Sophia Loren or George Clooney or Denzel — or even be in shape or attractive, for that matter.

It’s not like yoga is asexual. There’s the Kama Sutra, partner yoga for lovers, and the Fourth Limb (which, as I understand it, isn’t about abstinence at all, but excess — a key distinction), not to mention Plough Pose and Inverted Waterfall. Then there are the chakras, complete with the downright erotic svadhisthana — the sacral chakra and seat of your carnal power. Maybe Sanskrit is to blame; if you don’t think it’s an inherently sensual language, just slowly pronounce a few of these words to yourself: asana, manipura… pingula nadis.

Nevertheless, I understand that to reach enlightenment someday I’m gonna need to become immune to distractions incited by my physical senses. The human body’s a beautiful thing, I tell myself as I sit on a mat pressing gently into a complete stranger’s pelvis — especially when it’s arched and naturally glistening with perspiration. But that doesn’t eliminate my responsibility to center my attention during class on my own body parts.

Recently I’ve found peace in my non-pure state of being. I recognize my desire and let it pass by fixating on my inner mantra — and the aching in my low back, kidney, hips and pelvis. As my instructor tenderly adjusts my twist, I concentrate on my breath — and the fact that if I look her in the eye she’ll know my mind’s not fully engaged in wringing out the toxins in my system. And slowly but surely my focus returns to the task at hand.

I ran into “Halle Berry” a few weeks back at a local café near our yoga studio. “Hey,” she said, poking me in my sacrum, “you’re in my yoga class!”

“Oh really?” I replied, giving her my best drishti. “I hadn’t noticed.”

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