"Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man"

I had a traumatic experience at he gym again. I decided to give the New York Sports Club another shot and signed up for the 6 p.m. yoga class one night. I knew there were a couple of different studios inside the multi-level gym and I didn’t know where to go, so I decided to stalk a girl I had noticed in the locker room. She had on spandex pants and flip flops, so I figured she wasn’t planning on hitting the treadmills. My investigative work paid off, as she led me straight to the class. The downside was that I sort of dawdled in the locker room as I waited to follow her out and she gave me a weird look at one point, justly curious why I was tailgating her through the weight room.

Once inside, I came upon a new-age yoga instructor. He was middle-aged, with long gray locks tied in a ponytail and an overgrown beard. The final flourishes of his offbeat ensemble included parachute pants and a tight black tank top that fit snugly over his generous paunch.

Every direction he gave us, he stated three times and the last time he sang the words. He would say, “focus on your breath, focus on your breath” and then the last time he would sing loudly “focus on your breath” in a sort of Peter, Paul and Mary rendition of yoga commands. It annoyed me for several reasons, the most obvious cause being that it distracted me, and so instead of focusing on my breath I would focus on the freak of an instructor I had stumbled upon.

In the end I felt homesick, missing my no-nonsense yoga teacher and the regulars from my class. We used to chant together at the end of every practice, and I imagine that newcomers probably scoffed at us the way I did at Mr. Ponytail Man. He seemed to be a very popular instructor, but I don’t plan on going back.