Almost Southern: the Yogi

I hope you never have to experience something like this.

Almost Southern: the Yogi

by Meredith Mulhern, Staff Writer

So, I’m one of those crazy people who works out six times a week. I’m 90% sure it’s destroying my body, but that’s beside the point. The point of this little factoid is that I am at the Carriage Club gym multiple times a week. Normally, I have your typical run of the mill run-ins with your average country club moms and old men lifting weights. However, this specific day was different. Very, very different.

I had just finished my running and was getting ready to go into the studio room, which holds all of the weights and other equipment I use. A few minutes before I finished the cardio workout, the only other woman in the gym left. I thought nothing of it. Anyways, after the first part of my workout, I walked towards the studio and heard a very strange sound. A very strange, absolutely horrifically terrible sound.

That sound was the blare of a country singer yodeling about an alligator.

I kid you not, I heard this all the way down the hall. I paused and stood in awe.

“What the…?” I said quietly to myself as I slowly approached the door.

I certainly did not want to open the ominously closed door for fear of what I might see. Was this a large, muscular old man lifting weights? Was it the slightly nerdy middle-aged man I saw sometimes see who does excessive amounts of lunges? Or was it the woman who had left a few minutes before me and had a weird obsession with country music?

“Alright, Meredith, you’ll be fine. You are allowed to use this workout room. America is a free country, and so is Carriage Club.”

I slowly opened the door and saw a person who I thought was a woman doing yoga in the middle of the studio. I quickly shut the door and thought to myself, “Oh, this will be easy. I’ll just politely ask if I can share the studio with her.”

I opened the door and boldly stepped into the room. Another obnoxious country song began. The figure slowly looked up from their twisted pretzel pose, and just as I was about to ask if I could use the room, I made the shocking realization that I was dealing with a man with extremely long grey hair.

I scuttled to the other side of the room and put my headphones as loud as they could go so I wouldn’t have to hear is horrendous music. I was peacefully doing my workouts, minding my own, business, trying extremely hard not to make eye contact. All of the sudden, it sounds like this man is convulsing on the floor. I look in the mirror and see his reflection, which is literally flopping against the floor. I kid you not, this man is flinging his limbs all over the dang place, producing loud thuds.

“Ooooookay,” I thought to myself and continued my workouts.
However, I kept studying this man out of the corner of my eye. This guy is a hardcore yogi. He is twisting legs and arms where legs and arms shouldn’t be twisted, he’s standing on his hands, and, flinging himself across the room, of course.

The music changed from country music to smooth jazz from the 90’s. I willed myself to stay a little bit longer and finish my workouts. However, what he did next pushed me over the edge.

This man curled up into a ball and started rolling around the room. I sat, my jaw on the floor, staring at this man who was rocket-launching himself in a circle at lightning speed.

I sat up from my Russian twists, said “nope”, and got the heck out of there.

The Yogi have me a death glare from his pretzel bowling bowl position as I walked out. I did not appreciate his sass.

I hope I never have to workout with you again, Yogi, because you sufficiently made me feel possibly the most uncomfortable I have ever felt.

Peace out, ladies. Namaste.