It’s weird in general when “men” exercise and, like, pay special attention to how their body looks, but yoga is a particular genre of uncomfortableness in the world of “men’s” exercise. Though it’s still hard to reconcile the fact that “men” feel the need to workout at all and the days of functional activity like jousting have long since passed, I acknowledge that “men” feel a call toward the gym or whatever.

The gym is one thing. But yoga is quite another. You’re standing there in a tight, form-fitting outfit breathing heavily and posing. Everything about this screams: I am woman, hear me roar. Sure, the yoga industry may want you to think that yoga is gender neutral, but that’s for their own financial gain. “Men” are never going to have the flexibility (both physically and emotionally) that women do, so why waste the time trying to achieve it? Let’s all just lay on top of each other like Bibb lettuce during sex and call it a motherfucking day. Christ knows none of the doughy, yet slender Brooklynites living in Williamsburg are expecting an acrobat in the boudoir.