If you’re this girl, knock it off.

by Spiritual Hangover

He walks into Yoga Fire Fusion Transformation Healing Center and Wellness Studio emanating subtle cool mixed with overtones of hip. But not hipster. Not him. He stays away from clichés.

He smiles. Oh, hey, bright white teeth glowing through soft facial hair that hasn’t been shaved in 3-5 days. You mentally note that cuddles and rubs from him wouldn’t chafe.

You quickly correct your thoughts and bring them back into a higher, non-sexual spiritual vibration. Because you’re about to do yoga.

He strides to the front desk. He’s tall. He’s the kind of muscular that is skinny in corduroy pants. His hair is long, but not long enough to pull into a ponytail. His manly locks are all tousled with a touch of the haphazard. Each strand says, “Hey, I’m cute” but the frazzles say, “I’m down to earth, too. Let’s breathe together.”

He’s wearing organic hemp. No Lululemon men’s collection on his yoga toned ass (which you pretend not to notice). His Sanskrit tattoos are sensible and intelligent. Is that the symbol for the 2nd chakra on his hip? You can’t tell. His recycled yoga mat is blocking the view, but man, are you tingles at the possibility.

Look at him. He’s all hugs and soft giggles to the teaching staff and your gay-dar doesn’t go off.

He’s straight. Fucking sweet.

And he’s totally connected to his masculine in a non-threatening feminine way. You can tell he loves his mother and calls her at just the right intervals. He won’t ask her advice about you because he knows his feminine. That’s so rare.

Jesus, you think. He’s the guy I want to know because he’s kinda magic and all sorts of awesome.

You run to the bathroom before class begins. Damnit. You didn’t wear mascara. You were going to spend today in complete acceptance of yourself. ‘How can I attempt to turn my face to the Light of Truth while wearing a painted mask’, you said that morning in the mirror all existential and spiritually evolved.

The fuck were you thinking?

Maybe if you throw your hair into a calculated messy topknot, you’ll be ok.


Damn, girl. The topknot is kinda cute and is flopping at a casual, jaunty angle.

Fuck, yeah.

You hear a Tibetan bowl chime twice.

Fuck, no.

You spent so much time in the mirror you didn’t realize class was about to start. You ignore the line of people waiting outside the (only) bathroom door and walk briskly into the studio with your mat. You quickly scan the room.

Boom goes the dynamite.

He’s there. Second row in front. He’s talking with Matthew, the teacher. Oh, cool. They’re bros. They just did the handshake-slap with back pats.  Man, this guy has got SUCH a vibe going.

Scan the room again. Five open spots. Which one will show off your ass the best?

You walk by 3 open sections and climb over someone’s stuff to claim the most optimal position.

You deny that ‘ass presentation in downward dog’ is why you did it.

You smile at him as you walk by. You settle. You take deep breaths. Lots of them. You get your Prana-to-the-mother-fucking-yama ON, and it’s all shimmering spinning chakras and sweet, sweet chaturanga dandas…ana-somethings from here on out.

This is the best class you have ever taken. It’s epic in its flexibility and strength. You secretly hope he notices the paradoxes you embody. Vast, mysterious, feminine worlds for him to discover, waiting inside you, displayed perfectly in Bakasana.


Which you just fucking slammed home with your ass pointed right in his direction. Internal voice goes, “YES.”

And now it’s the savasana sweaty dismount of little sighs and moans. The room is steaming. Bodies are hot and moist. Yours, the hottest.

And, the moistest. Clearly demonstrated by your under boob sweat stains.


You don’t usually work that hard in class.

Back to the bathroom. You speed walk, cutting off that newbie who keeps taking advanced classes like a total douche. Why don’t recycled paper towels absorb more moisture?! You have that Lululemon pull over you just bought online, but you don’t want him to think you’re a follower.

Follower or under boob… follower or under boob.

Under boob wins. Sweater comes on. Top knot adjusted.

Girl. It’s game time.

Oh, good. There he is. Talking with Heather, the married owner of the studio. Sweet. No competition. Even though you heard rumors her marriage is open. It’s cool. She’s not that cute.

You nonchalantly go up to the desk and pretend to be interested in the chakra oils. You ask if they’re organic. You see him in the corner of your eye. You both turn and eyes lock.


Our babies will be named Mala or Zen, you catch yourself thinking. So crazy.

You instantly bring your thoughts back in line because he might be a little intuitive and hear you.

Or… are you hearing him?

Shit. This is getting good….

You get your bold on and casually say, nice class.

He smiles that smile. Thanks, he says.

You smile out of the corner of your mouth. You’re welcome.

And he is.

You talk to him a little. He mentions the compost project he’s started on his fire escape in that trendy neighborhood the artists all moved to because it’s cheap and the views are shitty. For now.

You know something about composting because you read an article in the New Yorker. Well, you skimmed it, because it was long, and there weren’t any pictures, but you’ve got the bullet points down, and now is your chance to TALK to this guy. To connect with this rare, pure ray of masculine light.

He smiles again.


He gives you his card. He’s a consultant for non-profits. His degree is in Environmental Studies. From Sarah Lawrence. He says to hit him up on twitter or give him a call.

You smile again. Look down and to the right. You let out a little laugh that says, OK. I’d love to.

And then…

Right at the end…

He looks you in the eye…

And opens his mouth…

And you hear him say….

{{{~~~<~~~~girlie***precious*** namaste (with head bow)~~~~<~~~}}}

:::spiritual record scratch:::

Your giddy sexy stops. You force a smile. Say goodbye. Watch him walk away.

You are secretly relieved.

What the fuck was that?

No one wants to make out with a girlie precious namaste.

For reals.