It’s been a hot minute (years actually) since I’ve had a consistent yoga practice humming despite the indisputable fact that my life is always better when I do.

Much like meditation, yoga is an easy tool to toss away. Why the tools that help process the stored-up emotional and mental gunk the best are the easiest to set aside is a far deeper question than I have time to delve into here.

Who am I kidding? I have no earthly idea why that is. It just is.

But I’ve been reading books to help open up and release stored traumas such as The Body Keeps the Score and The Untethered Soul, and you can’t go five pages without being slapped in the face with a yoga reference.

So I found myself a $40 two-week unlimited pass at the closest yoga studio and registered for my first session: a Tuesday evening Yin class.

Yin yoga is not really about movement so much as holding stretches for long periods of time and sinking deeper into them. I spend most of these sessions with my eyes closed.

Exactly what my aging, hobbled body needs.

There is a small detail that would make this experience a different one for your boy here – It was taught exclusively in French.

As have the two other vinyasa flow classes I’ve taken since. I can say hello, thank you, and goodbye in French. That’s the extent of it.

Normally I’d have put more effort into learning a few more basics to show respect to the native language, but I planned and executed my entire departure from Chicago to digital nomad in 25 days. Studying a brand new language wasn’t even on the totem pole.

To give myself credit, I did fire up Duolingo a couple weeks ago to learn a thing or two more, but no Duolingo, I do not need to know how to say, “That man is tall.”

Ship abandoned.

Anywho, I was not deterred by the language challenge. I’m well versed in yoga rhythms and poses. I’d just watch others in the room to follow along.

That’s all fine and well for a normal flow class but as previously mentioned my very first session was Yin. My peepers were shut 90% of the time.

Occasionally a good yoga studio will have an extra set of hands wandering around correcting people who need a little nudge or push to get into proper form. A gentleman named Benoit filled that role that night.

Several times in the first 15 minutes Benoit graciously shifted me into proper position as the entire room had moved along while I was still doing a stretch that had been left in the dust two movements ago. He did not know I don’t speak French.

Eventually Benoit stopped moving through the entire room and simply parked himself in my little corner of the studio, repositioning me on every other pose. It became a personal yoga class.

I can only imagine what was going through his mind. I tried to whisper, “I don’t speak French,” to no avail.

Mental note: if I ever want more hands-on adjustments, feign ignorance of the language.

There was no feigning here.

Now, onto the title of this post. The staring.

My next couple classes were normal yoga flow. Much less eye closing, faster movements, easier to glance up to see what was happening and adjust accordingly.

Wouldn’t you know it, I was the only man in both of those classes.

I wasn’t mad about that.

I’m not going to lie.

However, it did get a little uncomfortable when it became painfully obvious to the women in my vicinity that I was spying on them the entire class.

Not a French word uttered during either of those 60-minute sessions registered in my brain. My only hope for keeping pace was to dutifully follow along with my neighbors.

Women in particular, but all humans have a sort of sixth sense for when they are being gawked at. I have a point of reference as the gym I attended for a year on the North Side of Chicago is very close to Chicago’s Boystown. That meant my morning lift sessions were accompanied by more man thigh than I ever needed to see.

And nipples.

Usually pierced.

And yes, I could feel the piercing stares. Pun intended.

So I wasn’t at all surprised that the women around me would catch me looking frequently. In a normal situation where I was admiring someone, I’d smile, say hello and go on with my day.

Not in yoga class.

No ma’am.

I kept going back to that life-giving well.

After each class I managed to make an excuse to speak with someone, anyone, and make it clear that I understood nothing of what was said, hopefully resulting in the women realizing I did not come to a 7 a.m. yoga class simply to stare at their scantily clad bodies and drool.

Although I honestly don’t care too much if that’s what they go home with. Maybe it makes them feel good about themselves. Maybe they have a laugh at my expense.

Or maybe my bright blue toenail polish makes them a little more comfortable with my wandering eyes.

I’m sure as shit having a laugh at my own expense.

Tomorrow morning I’m going back for more.

Because Fucking A, readers…

Sometimes we just need to live.