Coming to Grips with Bro-ga

My husband needs yoga.  He needs it like everyone else needs water.  To relax.  Because we all know if we’re really thirsty, we drink diet coke.  With yoga, options abound.  Jake spent hours researching different types.  He found eight different types of yoga classes: bikram, kundalini, iyengar, vinyasa, ashtanga, hatha, power and hot yoga.

I just go to whatever yoga class my friend Tiffany suggests.

Except Bikram yoga or hot yoga.  Because I did that once and really it should be called The Yoga from Hell.  Hot yoga feels like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the bad-German’s skin melts.  That’s what happens at 103°.  When the temperature hits the required 108°, you simply die.  Which feels better.  You wear a swimsuit and pour the water you drank from the last seven years onto the carpet – all at once.  One hairy man wore only a Speedo and large gold chain.  For . . . um . . . luck?  Maybe he’s a giver.  Maybe he wears the chain to give the rest of the class good luck.  Because we’ll need it with him in there.

Tiff and I decided to try the 5:45AM, pry-your-face-off-the-pillow power yoga at a yoga studio in Bountiful.  And there, we met Steve – not his real name. (His real name is Veronica.)  Steve informed us that even though he doesn’t instruct at the studio, he is, in fact, a yoga instructor versed in yoga postures that would give you seizures.

This revelation empowered Tiff, who had been looking for something to do with her formal living room.  I mean, what can you really do with 900 square feet of wood flooring?   Steve agreed.  

So, of course, I sent Jake.  And Tiff sent her husband, Ivan.  Imagine Steve, Jake, Ivan, 5:45AM, 900sq of wood floor.  Is there such thing as circus yoga?  With stunning, death defying yoga moves?

When Jake described it, I knew we’d hit the jackpot. A yoga sub niche heretofore not tapped . . . pause for effect . . . Bro-ga!