Yogawkward.

I've been going to yoga classes for years; I mostly do this because I am too weak to lift weights and stretching is the most passive exercise that I've discovered (I keep hoping someone will come out with research that says sleeping extra will tone muscle and burn fat).

This year, I made a New Years resolution with a friend to start going to yoga at least once a week. The studio is probably a five minute drive from my house, but I've managed to come up with a multitude of excuses in the past two years that prevent me from going on a regular basis.

One of my preferred excuses thus far has been that I am too creeped out by the instructor of the basics class to attend, but not athletic enough to jump to the intermediate class (and I'm a coward who would rather just relax in child's pose for an hour and then eat ice cream because I totally "worked out").

It all started last year when Sarah and I decided to start going to classes together at this studio; we both wanted to get in shape without having to lift weights or jog. The studio is yoga gold - there is a waterfall fountain at the front desk, the air smells like aromatherapy and organic soap (whatever that means), the separate rooms have hardwood floors, and everyone who works there looks toned and enlightened. We wanted in on that.

Cut to the first class we decide to attend. We arrive early and set up our mats and supplies, then start stretching to warm up. Our instructor joins us shortly thereafter; she is an athletic looking 50-something with beachy hair and an excess of hippie rope bracelets (I have found these bracelets to be surprisingly popular among the yogi crowd). She introduces herself and proceeds to explain to us the spiritual journey we are about to embark on together.

Sarah and I briefly exchange concerned looks and then listen quietly to her spiel. Apparently, we are all going to connect with our inner heart-chakras, quiet our obnoxious minds and then maybe discover the meaning of life and the universe. Ready, set, GO!

Anyway, the class ensues and we are all easing into our meditative stride when our self-appointed spiritual guru starts wandering around the room adjusting our poses. Except, she doesn't wander around the room. For some reason, she decides to focus exclusively on Sarah and me.

Now, we are by no means experts at yoga, so the assistance was probably warranted. However, there were six other people in the class and at least half of them had worse form. Yet our instructor was doggedly fixated on adjusting exclusively our poses in the most hands-y way imaginable. At one point, I recall glancing over as Sarah was bent into a forward fold and seeing the awkward guru slide two palms up her rear end, while leaning over her body. Sarah resolutely held her form, but I could see her annoyance boiling to the surface.

I hardly had time to mentally giggle at Sarah's dilemma before I found myself facing my own unbidden pseudo-molestation. We were in the position called "happy baby", which is already a rather vulnerable place to be, when awkward guru decided that I was simply not "deep enough into the pose" and descended upon me to fix this issue.

Her intervention involved straddling me crotch-to-crotch à la the yoga scene from Couple's Retreat and sliding her palms up and down my inner thighs. The whole affair was made even more uncomfortable when she leaned in closer and whispered, "good, now you're sooooo open".

The rest of the class is a blur of anxiety and dismay, punctuated by feelings of shame and my indignation at the injustice of it all. At the end of the class, Sarah and I hurried to collect our belongings and slink away. Before we could escape, awkward guru shamelessly verbalized her desire to see us again and we were forced to mumble lies about our plans to return in the near future.

The moral of the story is that exercising in public is not safe and will most assuredly result in being physically violated, at some point. Heed my warning from this cautionary tale and proceed at your own risk.