Keats got a lot right in his Odes. He really did know how to evoke the human experience through language.
Even in my Spandex-soaked yoga class, his writing reverberates in my ear. Okay, maybe not an exact quote, but it’s bloody close enough.
I have recently become the proud owner of my very own yoga mat. Throw on a pair of leggings, give me a stick of incense, I’m a fully fledged yogi now.
Why yoga, I hear you ask? Well, apparently exercise is good for your health and wellbeing. But I know myself.
And trying to get me to lift heavy things in a sticky gym or run on a treadmill under fluorescent lights, is a losing battle.
Firstly, that lighting doesn’t flatter anyone. Secondly, you can’t shock your body too much. I could well combust at the sight of a squat rack.
But exercise where I’m basically sitting with my eyes closed most of the time?
Now that’s something I can get behind. Thus, my yoga membership was born.
Admittedly, I’m not the usual demographic for a yoga go-er. Generally, the classes consist of moms in Lululemon drinking some sort of collagen, electrolyte, avocado emulsion.
I am a little less polished in my yoga practice. I show up to a class lightly hungover, four espresso shots and a bagel into my day.
Ready to wobble through a few downward dogs and take a break every time I feel I’m at risk of exerting myself physically or emotionally. I never claimed to be an athlete.
These women cherish their decompression time, after they’ve dropped a hoard of screaming, saucy brats off at the school gates.
Hats off to them, honestly. I’d need a lot more than some yoga, if I had a mini me demanding I blow their nose every four minutes.
Like these moms, I am also in need of some decompression time.
Admittedly, I am a lowly college student: child-free, mortgage-free, care-free. The only thing I’m decompressing from is a meagre eight hours of class per week, a late night on Harcourt Street and a mild caffeine dependency.
We all need some time off. And yoga should be the perfect remedy.
It’s all quite peaceful inside the class. Some lavender essential oil wafting through the room, heaters keeping my toes perfectly toasty, soporific music in my ear.
That is, until the grating, borderline beastly noise of some man groaning in his Downward Dog pose, starts to overpower that melody.
Mixed into the class of meditating mothers, there is usually a man or two. And they make their presence known.
Looking up, I’ll scope out the cause of this disruption. Now, I don’t know what’s in the water, but the culprit tends to be a topless male.
It’s bad enough that I am being subjected to your un-pedicured man toes, but your unkempt bellybutton too! Can a girl get no reprieve?
Sure, you might be after a chance to de-stress from work. But it’s 11am on a Wednesday; things can’t be that bad at the office if you manage to get your naked torso here at this time of day.
At the very least, you could try to keep the groaning to a minimum. You’re interrupting my flow.
Look, I understand the heating is on. We’re all warm, but it’s not exactly tropical. Preserve a little dignity; keep the clothes on. I get it, you’re a yogi.
I’m sure you’re in your zen, at peace with the world around you, free of judgement for yourself and others. I applaud you.
I don’t want to make peace with a man getting his nips out for a warrior three pose. My eyes can’t cope.
Is your aim to induce nightmares in poor, unsuspecting girls? Because you’re certainly achieving it.
I’m too young to be asked to cope with such horrifying images. I’ll spend years unpacking the trauma with my therapist.
I know I’m supposed to be part of the generation of radical acceptance. But I’m only able to accept people that already align with my beliefs (it’s in the fine print of the Gen Z manifesto).
And men that think they can groan with their nips out in a yoga class are not aligned with anything.
Even Keats would be lost for words.
