The San Francisco International airport recently built a “yoga room,” where itinerant travelers can get a few down-dogs in before catching a flight. The unintended consequence of this may be a precipitous increase in attempts to join the “mile-high club.”
Allow me to explain.
Yoga, for better or worse, is taking over the world. A recent article in The New York Times alleging the injury potential of yoga got more coverage, umbrage and yuppie outrage than the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq combined. More pernicious and underreported, however, is that yoga is drastically raising our country’s Gross National Horniness.
Yours truly has been attending yoga classes for a year now, and contrary to what I feared, the problem is not that yoga is emasculating but that it makes you want to hump lampposts.
At first, I thought this might be due to the demographic of yoga classes, which is 75 percent straight babes in tight pants. Being a demure feminist who at all costs does not want to be the creep who takes yoga classes to stare at girls’ butts, I spend most of the class focusing not on my chi breathing but on avoiding glances at the wall-to-wall mirrors where girls’ butts extend in infinite fields like some kind of M.C. Escher sketch. Therefore, I mostly study the knots in the hardwood floors (I’ve practically given them all names).
Yet it was outside of class that I was feeling considerably more amorous, and this is coming from someone who needs a spike in his sex drive like the American military needs another $700 billion in funding. I’ve had the sexual appetite of a psychotic pubescent since I was maybe 4 and rubbing up against the mats during preschool naptime (fantasizing about my hot preschool teachers before I even knew what exactly those fantasies should entail—though I will admit my King Kong action figure usually played a role). Making me hornier is like building 15 superfluous aircraft carriers to patrol the waters off the coast of the Netherlands.
Finally, though, I discovered I’m not some weird pervert. Times columnist Maureen Dowd pointed me to a book by science writer William Broad called “The Science of Yoga: The Risks and the Rewards.” In it, Broad describes “a small trove of illuminating reports and investigations” that found yoga “can in fact result in surges of sex hormones and brain waves, among other signs of sexual arousal.”
Broad says, “The findings may also help introduce into the consumer society a number of practical methods for the treatment of sexual disorders and the revitalization of sex lives.”
My question for readers in the yogastocracy: Do you agree with this physiological assessment? Are you a hornier individual since beginning yoga and, if so, how do you cope with the “surge of sex hormones” that at night makes your pillow look like—depending on your orientation—Jessica Alba or Channing Tatum?
And I want an answer other than “Catch a connecting flight out of San Francisco and spend the whole plane ride hovering by the bathroom.” I already thought of that.