Nina Kan is a lawyer, beautician, and yoga enthusiast. She joins us today to discuss a critical first-world problem.
Yoga Etiquette for Sweaty Men
Yoga teaches us to accept what we cannot change. Incidentally, so does Alcoholics Anonymous. However, like most spiritual beliefs, I am inclined to ignore them whenever they become inconvenient. I have been practicing hot yoga since 2008, which makes me something of an expert. But even after performing thousands of sun salutations, I still feel like concentrating my chi into an energy sword to dismember men who sweat excessively and wear revealing clothes to class.
My teachers emphasize over and over that I have to share energy with others in class. I draw the line at sweat. If yogis share studio space, every man present has a duty to prevent their strong, musky sweat from dripping down their taut calves right in front of me. Why can't I stare at your straining tendons without becoming a victim of your pheromone-rich excretions?
I'll have you know that I have taken many yoga classes in a number of different studios, and all of them have that certain sweaty, dripping man that I always end up next to for some reason. Typically, as the class gets hotter and more intimate his sweat will tap against the mat like steamy water from a flowing shower head. I, the distracted victim, am forced to watch in absolute horror as this primal display of power and dexterity plays out before me. Ever inconsiderate, he pays no mind to my probing eyes.
I, the victim, am shamed into silence by the rules of mutual respect that yogis adhere to. Suddenly, droplets of his far-flung sweat begin to appear near my own mat. Why should I be subjected to this acrid vector of disease? Why should I be forced to draw as close as I dare to the quivering pool on the floor, where I have no choice but to draw its essence deep into my violated nostrils?
How can anyone be so inconsiderate? I know that this is yoga, and I'm supposed to let go of worldly things as I practice, but what would he think if I were to coat him with bodily excretions, just as he does every time I place my hand into it and accidentally let it soak into my mat so that every time I press down on it the scent of sweaty jerks permeates through the air.
And don't get me started on those thin, overtaxed shorts!
How can male yogis even dream about attending class while wearing shorts that could practically be painted on? So many victims have been subjected to the horror of a tightly beshortted man in the downward dog. How can I even see this if I'm in the downward dog like I'm supposed to be? None of your damn business, yoga instructor! What do I pay you for? My righteous anger at the bulging, virile display that I've chosen to leer at in rage is how I choose to express my inner chi.
I'm sorry, I actually need to stop now to deal with some toxins and inner turmoil. But rest assured, I've been taking photos with my covert wristwatch cam, and I'm going to make a groundbreaking Tumblr any day now. Until then, I still need to do some final touch-ups to my...gallery.
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