November 22, 2010 by Kat Richter
It’s not that I want to be one of those yuppie couples who spend their Saturday mornings carting their matching yoga mats through the sophisticated suburbs of Cherry Hill or Mt. Airy, discussing the merits of soy vs. almond milk as they head to their weekly “Couples Yoga” class. It just that… okay, I do kind of want to be one of those couples, almond milk and all (although I’ll pass on the matching yoga mats—for now).
As such, you can imagine my surprise and immediate delight when, after a week of studying, Date #17 emerged from the cavernous depths of his GMAT test prep and invited me to join him in his weekly yoga class.
Actually, he didn’t really invite me. Instead, he pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear, “It’s such a beautiful day to skip yoga and go to brunch, don’t you think?” To which I replied, “Absolutely not! You’re going. And more importantly, I am coming with you.”
If I come across as a bit of a fitness Nazi, it’s only because I’ve played a rather major role in Date #17’s shoddy yoga practice for the past three weeks— he keeps missing class on my account and although his poor attendance has given us plenty of fodder for flirtatious text messages, I was starting to feel guilty. He’s training to run a marathon. And he’s preparing for a rather important exam. And here I am keeping the poor man up till all hours of the night with my incessant—
“I’m not complaining, Kat,” he’s assured me. “Trust me.”
But I don’t trust him. I don’t want to be responsible for him failing his exam or straining or spraining or whatever it is that you do to your IT band. I want to make sure that he’s physically and mentally prepared for everything he has going on this month (mainly because I’m still hoping I’ll be able to convince him to come to annual Hoopers Island Black Friday Martini Bar Soiree as my date, but also because I’m a good person, and because good people should want their partners to be happy and healthy and harmoniously in touch with their bodies).
There’s also the fact that I want to be the better half of one of those yuppie, almond milk-drinking yoga couples—but I like to think my concern for Date #17’s yoga practice has nothing to do with my desire to flaunt the newest additions to my “active wear” wardrobe.
Now that I’m teaching dance five days a week, I’ve been scouring the clearance racks at Kohls and Target (and Marshalls of course, which is how I met the Man from Marshalls in the first place) and I’ve amassed quite a collection. Cute floral prints, sporty blues and yellows, and black pants of every possible material, cut and length—and I’ve been planning what to wear for my first Couples Yoga class ever since I learned, whilst Google stalking Date #9 nearly two months ago, that such a thing exists.
Unfortunately, I was unprepared to make my active wear debut on this particular November morning, owing to the fact that I was wearing my knee length leather boots and the green chiffon dress I bought in the Hammersmith tube station two years ago (which exhibited more obvious dress like qualities when I first acquired it. Now it resembles a tunic, and that’s a being generous— “shirt” might be a more apt description— so either’s its shrunk, I’ve grown taller, or I’ve simply adjusted to puritanical Philadelphia after nearly a year back in the States and am no longer so confident about the suitability of my TigerTiger hemlines).
Nonetheless, when Date #17 started waffling about skipping yoga and suggested going to brunch instead, I snapped into dance teacher mode and insisted. I also insisted that he call his gym to ask about their guest pass policies and, more gently, that he take a look through his closet to find me something to wear—something other than my leopard print chiffon, err, tunic.
He produced a pair of light blue mesh gym shorts, which were about as flattering on me as the bags in which yuppie yoga couples carry their mats, and a gray non-fitted t-shirt. “Don’t you have any tank tops?” I whined, catching a glimpse of my potato sack appearance in the mirror.
I know yoga is about connecting with your breath and the universe and all, but is it too much to ask to look good doing it?
Evidently it is.
Date #17 had nary a tank top and so, bemoaning his lack of evident metro sexuality (and suitably fitted undergarments) I slapped on some lip gloss and reached for my shoes. This, of course, is when I remembered that I’d been wearing my boots, and there was NO WAY that I was walking to Date #17’s gym in my knee-length high heeled boots and a pair of light blue men’s gym shorts.
“I need to change,” I announced, reaching for my previously discarded dress. “And I’ll need to change again when I get there.”
I couldn’t tell whether Date #17’s look was one of bemusement, embarrassment or sheer dismay over the fact that I’d knotted the drawstring of his shorts into an impressive feat of nautical engineering in an attempt to keep them from falling down. All I know is that my look for our first yoga class was definitely not sexy.