Oh Yee of little faith

I've had a back problem since my mid-teens, and having been notoriously resistant to anything involving sport or 'games' at school ('games' was always the ultimate misnomer - what could be remotely playful about getting hit in the face with a wet netball on a freezing February afternoon?), I didn't find out until my early twenties that regular exercise was actually my friend, and a means by which back pain could be kept at bay. This handy revelation also got me out of having to wear the delightful built-up shoe I'd been instructed to wear aged 19 (yeah, that got a lot of wear on my nights out at at Le Beat Route.).

I've stuck with exercise ever since, somewhat grimly at times, and it's served me well as my back is under control and my weight hasn't varied much from when I was twenty. I tend to combine a bit of everything; gym work, a few classes, running (short distances these days, but still), Pilates here and there (it gets boring), and yoga. I've never been too interested in the 'spiritual' side of yoga; for me it's first and foremost a good all-over stretch that keeps me flexible and keeps my muscles strong. I can see that focusing on the postures makes it hard to worry or think about too much else, so it's definitely got a relaxation element, but for me that's a Brucie Bonus. I'm not too worried about my chakras, or where my prana might end up during the more complicated asanas.

I know that's not the case for everyone who does yoga. A discipline which has its roots in the Hindu belief system is naturally massively informed by that philosophy. While I respect that, I don't necessarily wish to explore it, and I'm pleased that I've been able to cherry-pick the elements of yoga that are helpful to me without feeling pressurised to sign up for a whole 'enlightenment' package.

So when I went on holiday in September, I even bought a yoga DVD to take with me, so I could get a couple of sessions in while I was away. This may sound obsessive but I know from experience that different hotel beds and pillows can set my back off, and if this happens then an hour of yoga will usually see me right. I looked around on Amazon and found one practitioner to be very highly praised. Rodney Yee is a Japanese-American ex-ballet dancer, who has been practicing and teaching yoga for twenty years, and who frankly has the sort of body that such a pedigree would suggest. His DVDs, while not for beginners, are clear, thorough and easy to follow. And they feature an awful lot of Rodney, wrapping himself around himself by a waterfall or folding himself in two on a Hawaiian beach. Whatever improbable sequence his body might be moving though, Rodney's face remains as calm and as serene as the Buddha. If he's thinking of anything earthly at all, it couldn't be anything more corrupting than perhaps his next cup of miso soup or green tea. He looks like a man who has evolved beyond all base earthly needs.

Being so impressed with his DVD and all, and possibly even being slightly drawn to his commanding air of simple composure, I did something unusual for me and Googled him. His CV is certainly impressive, as is his business acumen - yoga has made him a very rich man, and has given  him a predictably wealthy, famous and self-obsessed number of followers (the roll-call of models, actors and female singers who have embraced Rodney Yee is quite something.). Unfortunately, it appears that he's also a sexually incontinent serial shagger, who sent ripples round the international yoga community a few years ago when the extent to which he'd been releasing his groinal energies with his students became scandalously clear. Then he left his (presumably long-suffering) wife and three kids to shack up with an ex-model yoga filly who had, their self-penned legend has it, caused a seismic shift in his consciousness not to mention his trunks, by placing her hand on his Third Eye while they were taking a post-class dip in a hot tub together (for those who don't know or have tawdry minds, the Third Eye is reputedly located in the forehead, not the Other Place.). It seems for all his outward composure, our Rodney is as seething a mass of internal impulses as the Man on the Clapham Omnibus.

I was terribly disappointed and then enormously amused by Rodney's tale. And not remotely surprised. The cult of gyms and 'fitness' is heaving with narcissists seeking guru status, and with all that proximity to bare, glowing flesh the possibilities for a hard-bodied type with a roving eye can be almost endless. One of the most fertile hotbeds (literally) of generalised lust and relationship disaster that I know of has been the 'Hot Yoga' schools which sprang up over here about ten years ago, which provide a natural stage-set for ill-advised sexual meandering worthy of a classic 1970s Swedish porno. The classes are held in a steamy room kept permanently heated to 105 F, and at a humidity level of 40%. You run through 26 postures wearing few clothes as you can get away with, at the mercy of a strutting yoga muse  or satyr who will be clad in a crop top and clinging yoga pants at the very most. I've never been to a swingers' club, but for the gauche, indiscriminately sexualised atmosphere I'd imagine there, a Hot Yoga class could give them a run for  their money. And if I had a quid for every relationship I personally know of, that has skidded off the rails on a patch of patchouli-scented sweat through a Hot Yoga 'flirtation' getting out of hand...well, I'd have about thirty-six pounds.

Me, though, I went to Hot Yoga twice, and the second time I went I got pleurisy. Germs and microbes off all kinds mutate in those fetid rooms, you know. So guess I'm just not cut out for the cult of Fitness Shaggery, but it does make me grin, from a distance. I'll keep doing my Rodney Yee DVD, as it does the job and keeps my back in check, but the next time I see that self-possessed smile as he eases himself into Cobra pose, I'll be all too aware of the hormonal volcano ready to explode behind it.

Namaste, everybody.


©Ishouldbeworking 2011