Dear Yoga,

I'd heard about you for years. The way women – and even some men – go crazy for you, falling head over heels in love. They swear by your ability to make them feel young and sexy. I have to say, I was certainly intrigued. I even tried to get to know you through a few video tapes from a friend. Those tapes feel cheap now. Because just like sign language, knitting, and the Kama Sutra, you are definitely an enigma that one must experience in person.

Oh, the promises you make. They sound so delightful. "Follow me, and you will become bendy and strong," you say. "I will give you good posture, a lean body, and a peaceful mind."

I fell for your sweet-talk, you rascal, you! Oh, yes, Yoga, I'm calling you a rascal. On the surface you're all patchouli oil and soothing music with wooden flutes and chirping birds. But I've seen your real face tonight: a cold, cruel face, like that of a Drill Sergeant. This evening, on our very first date, you humiliated me, demanding that I hold poses I couldn't even attain. "Now look back at your thighs," cooed the instructor (your little slut). And I thought, "Look back at my thighs? I can't even find my thighs!"

I didn't expect you to be easy. I'd heard you make people work for it. But still, I didn't expect to sweat so damn much. I have Mr. Treadmill for that.

But you are a sly downward dog, Yoga. After 40 minutes of torture, you spoke to me in honeyed tones. You asked me to lie on my mat in the darkened room, just breathing. "Doesn't your body feel stretched and relaxed?" you asked. "Feel how the tension has left you. Let it all go, and invite in calm and peace. There, now. How do you feel?"

How do I feel, Yoga? How do I feel?!

I'll tell you after next week's class.

Until then, namaste.