But it just made me surly and act inapropiatly. My wife and I where going to a gym together a few years ago, and she agreed to do the meathead lifting I wanted to do if I took yoga classes with her. We went to classes that were taught by older boulder hippy chicks, and soon found myself, a deceptively flexible barrelchested bhuddabellied meat head, in the unlikely role of teachers favorite. Well, I have trouble keeping my wiseass sarcastic new jersey attitude in check to begin with, and yoga seemed to make it worse. As the classes progressed, I started asking my wife in my best north jersey guido voice soft enough so only she could hear, things like "my bawls, what am I supposed to do with my bawls" in any pose that was uncomfortable, or changing "nameste " to "oh*****'*a", causing my honey to break into giggles and get dirty looks from those around us. This, and a few incidents with clueless pedestrians from the burbs in the "big city" post class led us to rethink the relationship between myself and yoga.
somethings are better left alone,
mario