things you will find in a toronto yoga class

1. Sweat. Sometimes, so much sweat that certain class members are no longer able to balance on their sticky, sweaty mats and fall face first in front of the only yoga instructor they have ever been sexually attracted to. It happened to someone I know.

2. The Lululemon sea. Ambo told me that Lululemon pants became de rigeur for a time among female clubbers in Victoria. This is very strange to me as they are flattering, yes, but: work-out gear. They do make one's bottom look appealing but their competition is...sweatpants. So. Kind of a hollow victory, I think.

3. That one guy who is wearing little more than a loincloth and is often quite hirsute. Which I am not judging because I am currently sporting upper lip reddening from where I removed my unwanted hair with a tad too much vigor last night. I just notice the correlation between no shirt and a whole lotta chest hair. That much fur is permanent insulation.

4. Show-offs. People who walk into the class and - stone-cold - begin to do handstands. I'm thinking, why are you in a yoga class? Why not just go and do some gymnastics? Because...the point is kind of to move into the pretzel postures in sequence...not to be all, look at me, I'm the King of the Yogis. We get it...you? Are awesome.

5. No. Space. In. Change. Room. And usually only one toilet. You have to be ridiculously flexible just to get one shirt off and another over your head when there are bodies pressing on you from all sides. It's a skill in and of itself. And...I've seen people do it revealing nary a nipple. Me, I let the girls get some air because meh. I pretty much get to third base with the other women changing simply because we are packed in there like tuna...so I figure they don't mind seeing my boobs. But for those with more decorum - I'm impressed. Seriously. It takes me about three minutes in any given situation to get to Lord of the Flies type abandon so for those who preserve our social codes: I salute you. With my boobs.