THE SPORTS CLOSET

In my mind, I see a large closet—let’s make it a walk-in—filled with tennis rackets, footballs, basketballs, soccer balls and hockey sticks. It’s also crammed with male pro athletes who use this equipment. Where are all the gay role models in professional sports?

 

In the wake of the immensely popular Crave/HBO series Heated Rivalry in which actors played three hockey players dealing with gayness and/or bisexuality, no active pro athletes have stepped out of the closet. There is no evidence of gay tennis[1], football, basketball, soccer or hockey players. In the past, all we’ve had is NFL draftee Michael Sam, NFL player Carl Nassib and NBA player Jason Collins who were out. These players did not lead to the closet door becoming unhinged. The door remains firmly shut. 

 

Checking the forty-nine openly queer athletes at the 2026 Winter Olympics, only ten are male and the majority of them are figure skaters, a sport seemingly without a closet. (The other queer male Olympians are a curler, a speed skater and a couple of skiers.) 

 

When will it feel safe for pros currently playing in major sports to come out? It is true that gay progress has taken a hit under the current Trump administration. (See last week’s removal of Pride flags from the Stonewall Inn, declared a national monument during Obama’s presidency and state actions to remove rainbow crosswalks as well as seemingly everything regarding trans rights.) Still, marriage equality has been on the books for more than a decade. It’s unlikely there will be a perfect time in the foreseeable future for an active athlete to come out. If not now, when? I know the inner turmoil I felt while I remained a plain old, closeted college student and teacher. I can’t imagine staying in the closet throughout my twenties and beyond. 

 

Earlier this month, in the article, “What HBO’s Surprise Hit Gets Right About Men’s Locker Room Culture,” The New York Times cited a 2023 survey of 1,000 LGBTQ high school and college athletes in which 95% of the respondents described teammates’ reactions to their being out as ranging from “neutral” to “perfect.” This should be encouraging although I’d like to know the gender breakdown of respondents. Women are more inclined to be out. As that same article explained, sports are more aligned to a “masculine identity” and, therefore, “just by playing a sport…some women find it less risky to be more open because they are already going against stereotypical femininity.”  By contrast, the stereotype for male athletes is being “hypermasculine,” “dominant” and “emotionally controlled” while gayness still comes with a “more feminine” perception.

 

Unfortunately, neither Michael Sam nor Jason Collins nor Heated Rivalry has inspired and guided other male athletes in stepping out of the closet. The NYT article quotes Bill Kenney, an out NBA referee, saying, “[T]he needle hasn’t moved. The needle hasn’t moved because nobody else has done it” in terms of coming out. 

 

It’s possible some players have come out to their teammates without making an announcement to the wider public. I get that. Telling teammates has the potential for building camaraderie and being authentic to one’s day-to-day contacts. Perhaps their reaction is as much scrutiny as a player wants instead of waving the Pride flag at a press conference or making a statement on Instagram. If this is happening, it’s progress for the individual and his team. Not everyone wants to be a torchbearer. But with no one carrying the torch, other athletes, both professional and amateur, both younger and older, remain left without current role models. Fans too remain tied to the hypermasculine narrative for elite athletes.  

 

Will it take another generation or just a different administration before more professional athletes remove the closet door and step out? At this point, there are no balls or pucks in play. It’s all speculation.

---

[1] Okay. There’s one gay tennis player, Joâo Lucas Reis de Silva, though he is hardly a household name. He is currently ranked 207 in the world. This means he cannot play the Grand Slams (the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon or the U.S. Open) without successfully going through three rounds of qualification. He lost in the first round of qualification in January’s Australian Open qualification draw. To my knowledge, he has never played in the main draw of a Grand Slam.  

SKIPPING THE SUPER BOWL

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl. It’s the day after and I have no regrets. Didn’t see the commercials. Missed Bad Bunny. Definitely didn’t check out Kid Rock.

 

I skipped it all and I feel amazing. Or, I feel my normal self, at least. 

 

I haven’t watched the Super Bowl since at least 1986. That’s right. Four decades. It’s not much of a statement to skip the Super Bowl when I live in Vancouver, Canada. Stating the obvious, the Super Bowl is very American. As described in yesterday’s New York Times, it’s “that most red-white-and-blue of cultural moments.” Canadians aren’t so big on American moments right now. Canadians have their own football league, not that I care much about that either.

 

So, yeah, watching football is only slightly more interesting to me than golf. Okay, no, it’s considerably better than watching golf. But isn’t everything?

 

Back in the ’80s, I lived in Texas. At the time, it was treasonous not to cheer for the Dallas Cowboys. (I taught only minutes away from the stadium.) Mostly, I skipped watching their games, too. In fact, I timed Sunday grocery shopping for when the Cowboys were on TV. It meant the aisles were clear and there was no line at the checkout. Well played, I’d tell myself. Well played.

 

I realize I sound like a gay cliché, not watching football. But my relationship with the sport is more complicated than that. I will watch bits of college football games. I like the fast play, the marching bands, the cheering traditions, the students in the stands wearing their school colours. During my first three years attending TCU—“Go Frogs!”—in Fort Worth, Texas, I attended thirty-two out of thirty-three games, home and away. I travelled to Kansas, Arkansas, Alabama and Tennessee as well as all over Texas. I’ve gone to several bowl games featuring my team. I even paid $1,000 for a ticket to the Rose Bowl on January 1, 2011. Including the parade, it was worth it as a lifetime memory. (We won!) And, yes, I do expect to go to another TCU game someday…just not for a thousand bucks.

 

So watching some kind of football is considerably better than watching golf.

 

If I were going to watch a Super Bowl, yesterday’s might have been the one. Go, Seahawks. I like the city of Seattle a lot. I know I could live there if an opportunity or need arose. I’m happy for the city that its team finally won its first Super Bowl. I’m happy they get to have a parade. (That’s what happens, isn’t it? Isn’t that what they’re vying for…which city gets to calendar an extra parade? I did say I like marching bands. (Parades without roses, not so much.))

 

Pre-1987, I went to several Super Bowl parties. There were always two groups in attendance: (1) the sit-on-the-edge-of-the-sofa dudes who screamed at the television screen and high-fived each other as if they’d actually been on the field and helped make that touchdown happen, and (2) the rest of us who sat around, the screen barely in view, chatting about work, (non) dating, the latest movies and wondering if Brad would go berserk if any of us said his facepainting was “nice makeup.” Occasionally, the two groups would connect at the food table, stocking up on Doritos with bean dip and a surprisingly awesome cheese dip made from Velveeta and a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes. For the most part though, it was two separate parties in one household. 

 

I decided to stop watching NFL football in the fall of 1987. That’s when the players went on strike. Yes, they wanted more pay. Greed, I told myself. While $3.2 million is currently the average salary, in 1987, players earned an average of somewhere between $212,000 and $230,000…still A LOT of money back in the good old days before we knew anything about CTE. 

 

I was offended that obscenely paid football players wanted more. (Yes, I’m sure the team owners were making even more obscene amounts but the divide between the 1% and everyone else has always been outrageous.) All I knew was that I was working my butt off in a noble profession as a special education teacher and, with my own pay raise, I was making $14,000 per year….not a lot of money back then. These striking football players were making FIFTEEN TIMES more money than me. Something told me that this was f#@ked up. I turned my back on the NFL and have never regretted it. 

 

I don’t even watch the halftime shows. Sorry, Madonna. (See, I’m not a total gay cliché.)

 

I’ve never had a fear of missing out. If there’s a wardrobe malfunction, I’ll read about it the next day. If there’s an epic commercial—come on folks, watching commercials shouldn’t be a highlight—I can try to catch it on YouTube although it may not play in my region since I don’t live in the United States.

 

And speaking of the U.S., I’m more than tired about how everything gets politicized there, so much so that there were competing halftime shows. Good god, let Bad Bunny say or do something about immigration and, if you don’t like it, go double dip your Dorito in that Velveeta dip. Choosing to not watch something is easy, folks. I’ve been not watching for four decades.

 

I like having my Sunday afternoons free. (It gives me more time to read Sunday’s New York Times.) I like having Monday nights clear as well as whenever the NFL schedules other televised games…Thursdays? Saturdays? Really, I don’t care enough to look it up. 

 

So another Super Bowl come and gone. Hoopla over. Except for that parade. Time to move on to more important things like whether I should watch Hamnet before the Oscars. I’m not feeling it, but I’m sure it too is better than golf…and that Melania flick. 

THE SWEDISH GAZE

Life changes when you’re in a relationship that’s working. For the second time since partnered with Evan, I went on a solo European trip. I have the luxury of time, a love for Northern Europe and the privilege of being able to afford to go. (I’ve been consciously avoiding looking at my credit card expenditures and the conversion of European currency to Canadian dollars.) Besides, Evan has travelled Europe extensively and has said he doesn’t ever need to see another castle. I get it. But I’m not castled out yet.

 

This trip was my first time in Norway—Oslo and the SPECTACULAR Lofoten Islands. (Google Image them. Seriously.) But the start of my European adventure was my home base—or what I’ve often wanted to call home: Stockholm. 

 

Oh, how I love the city! I’ve said it over and over but the place wholly suits me. I no longer feel like a tourist there. When I visit, I just live my daily life in local parks and cafés, hopping back and forth between favourite districts. 

 

Swedish actor Alexander
Skarsgård sporting The
Swedish Haircut

I will admit that Swedish men were once part of the draw as well. So well-groomed in a classically conservative manner. I’m partial to blonds and so many men wear their hair parted on one side that, a number of years ago, I went into a Stockholm salon and asked the stylist, “Please give me a Swedish haircut.” 

 

She didn’t know what I was talking about. Still, she gave me her best effort at what I described. My stylist in Vancouver knows all about The Swedish Haircut as we call it. She does it well. (I can’t wait for my next appointment this week.)

 

On this trip, I didn’t pay much attention to the men. I think that comes with being in a secure relationship. The urge to look just isn’t there. I had to push myself to be more conscious of men’s fashion and, yes, hairstyles. Perhaps because I wasn’t consistently looking, I saw neither a consistent manner of dressing nor wearing men’s hair. 

 

Where’d The Swedish Haircut go? If anything, the men I did notice were not as neatly groomed. Sure, there was light snow on many of the days during my visit; perhaps that made guys dress more for weather than style. (Evan would say it’s not an either/or predicament.) I suppose more men had hats on as well, hairstyles covered up. I only wore my toque one day—not in Sweden, but on the Lofoten Islands when the wind chill factor demanded I cover my ears. Overall, I’m not a hat wearer. There’s vanity—I don’t think they look good on me—and then there’s the discomfort: hats make my hair itchy. Is it just me? Are my follicles more inclined to itchiness? Of course, there’s also “hat hair,” the disastrous reveal when I take my hat off. I really, really need a haircut.

 

There was something even more calming about this trip since I wasn’t focusing my gaze on gays. With Evan as my partner, even the desire to look was just not there. Instead, I spent my time looking at pretty, old buildings—yes, a couple of castles—taking in overall street scenes and scoping out previously undiscovered cafés that might become a new writing spot. (Really, I think I stuck to all my familiar ones. So comfortable, so cozy, so easy to just dive into the writing.)

 

I’m back in Vancouver now. I only bought one basic shirt. (Despite not looking, my gut said I needed to be gentler on my credit card.) I have no new tweak to The Swedish Haircut. I just have hundreds of photos and nice memories. A wonderful trip, no gaze required.

 

GOT YOU COVERED

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but publishers want you to do exactly that. With that in mind, I thought I’d offer quick impressions of various covers for James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room and what they seem to be selling (or not selling).

 

First comes the cover for my copy of the book. A large pitcher of water, a tea setting, a wicker chair. Really, this gives me no idea what the book is about. If anything, the image is misleading. Something about a life of leisure? Something about aristocracy? Is it set on some English estate in some place that ends in -shire? Neither David nor Giovanni is wealthy. In fact, the titular setting is tiny and messy. I’m not sure what the publisher had in mind with this cover. If anything, it’s the equivalent to a plastic-wrapped Playboy. Don’t let anyone know what the reader has chosen. Definitely don’t let on that it’s a gay book. Nothing about this cover begs me to buy the book. Had I not known Giovanni’s Room was considered a gay classic, I’d have passed.

 

Same for this one. Leaves on a branch? What?! There sure are a lot of leaves. Did the book describe a leafy tree? Did I miss that? Once again, this cover seems intended to cover up the book’s content. Let the subject matter be an unknown. Maybe I’d buy it—and perhaps be disappointed—if I were a botanist.

 

Okay, no doubt about this one. Very gay. I mean, Giovanni is shirtless! Both men appear good-looking. David has the right hair colour. If anything, the drawn figures seem a tad too old to represent the twenty-something characters. They look at least a decade older. I suppose there’s some sex appeal in this cover. I might be disappointed if I bought the book based on the cover. It didn’t come off as a sexy book to me. Especially when considering the ending.

 

This one’s a head scratcher. Strikes me as a mystery or crime novel. The (presumably) woman’s legs and high heels remind me of Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate, but maybe that’s just me. Vague covers like this one encourage the viewer to make their own (wrong) conclusions. I suppose it gets at the love triangle between David, Giovanni and Hella. Really, I’d pass on this one unless I were a mystery reader, in which case I’d be very disappointed. 

 

Another vague one. Hands reaching…in the rain? I’m starting to feel like I read the wrong book, as if someone pulled the switcheroo and stuck a different manuscript between my tea-setting cover. 

 

Well, this one’s colourful. The problem is they’ve got the wrong colour for the hair. David is blond and Giovanni, an Italian, I presumed to have dark hair. Maybe he does in this portrait. Maybe that clump of red on his head is a bow. Why? I don’t know. Just weird. Would I buy the book. No. I’d shrug and move on.

What is this? Time for a Rorschach test? Centre right, I spy a partridge or some other bird. But, no, the entire cover is half a head. The “bird” is actually some guy’s nose. What’s with the colour choice? What’s with the half head in the first place? This tells me nothing. With this cover, I’d pass…even if it’s a classic by James F#%king Baldwin.

 

Confession. I’ve never been to Paris. For shame, for shame. (Do I at least get points for writing this post from Oslo?) I’m assuming this is Paris, the main setting of the novel. Give the artist points for not featuring the Eiffel Tower. But how many of us peruse bookshelves, thinking, “Hmm,…I’d like to read a story set in Paris. Any story. Just make it in Paris, dammit.” Not enough for me to reach for the book.

 

Another shirtless Giovanni in the background with David in the foreground. Same artist or did one steal the other’s layout? Surely, there would have been a tiff. I give the nod to this artist. The characters seem the right age on this cover. Assuming I don’t have any hangups over carrying around a GAY book, I might buy this one. More likely so if the back cover had a blurb with no illustrations. There are times I’d still flip the book so the back cover faces out. Yeah, I’m lame.

 

For this one, forget Paris. Forget David and Giovanni (who seems to have a habit of forgetting his shirt). Forget the love triangle and the fact that Simon and Garfield’s “Mrs. Robinson” is now my earworm of the day. Just go with James F#%king Baldwin. His book. His fame. This book isn’t some knockoff Giovanni’s Room about a pasta restaurant in Manhattan. This is the real deal classic by the celebrated author. The title and the author were the only things I knew about this book before I picked it up. Call it a cost-saving decision by a lazy publisher—no artist fees—but, yeah, if I didn’t have the tea set cover version, I’d probably buy this copy. 

 

To be honest, I don’t think James Baldwin would quibble much over any of the covers. (Maybe still the tree branch edition.) All this cover coverage highlights the fact Giovanni’s Room has had multiple print runs. Isn’t that what every author (and his estate) wants?  

THE CRINGE FACTOR

Now that I’ve read James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, I can talk about one particular criticism I have about the book… involving criticism. It’s about how the main character, David, has disdain for particular groups of gay men, basically the groups he is not a part of. Is this the character’s internal homophobia? Is it also the opinion of Baldwin himself? 

 

I mentioned in last week’s post that David considers two older gay men who are central to the plot with disgust. At the beginning of Chapter 2 in Part 1, a more reflective David does confess after the fact, “I understand now that the contempt I felt for [Jacques, one of the older gays] involved my self-contempt.” Somehow I’d forgotten this line. It’s easy to do when the disgust David expresses as the narrator seems so relentless. 

 

Another group gets dissed in a few of David’s asides. The more feminine gay men seem to be despised. The reader is clobbered by David’s hate the moment he walks into a gay bar in Paris:

There were, of course, les folles, always dressed in

the most improbable combinations, screaming like

parrots…Occasionally one would swoop in, quite

late in the evening, to convey the news that he—but

they always called each other “she”—had just

spent time with a celebrated movie star, or boxer.

Then all of the others closed in on this newcomer

and they looked like a peacock garden and 

sounded like a barnyard. I always found it difficult

to believe that they ever went to bed with anybody,

for a man who wanted a woman would certainly

not want one of them. Perhaps, indeed, that was

why they screamed so loud.

 

I would like to think attitudes have changed since the book’s publication seventy years ago. Sadly, I think as long as there have been gay bars, the more effeminate have been savagely mocked by those who have some need to distinguish themselves as not one of them. Not having spent much time in gay bars—or queer spaces—in the last decade, I’d like to think the community is less divisive and, indeed, less inclined to criticize more effeminate gays. I’ve said it before in this blog and it should be obvious but it’s worth repeating. The gays who did not have the luxury of “passing” as straight have often been outed earlier because they never had an opportunity to linger in the closet while trying to figure things out about their identity. Without any choice in the matter, the more effeminate are often the first among us to be fully out. They have been the trailblazers who made things easier for the rest of us. (Personally, I believe that most of my peers suspected I was gay when I was a teen on account of my higher voice and the way I talked with my hands but only a few of them called me a gay or a faggot. There was just the slightest doubt about my gayness that offered me some extra time to figure out my identity.)

 

Immediately after David bashes more effeminate gays, he casts even harsher criticism toward a person in drag:

There was the boy who…came out at night wearing

makeup and earrings and with his heavy blond 

hair piled high. Sometimes he actually wore a

skirt and high heels. He usually stood alone

unless Guillaume walked over to tease him.

People said that he was very nice, but I confess

that his utter grotesqueness made me uneasy;

perhaps in the same way that the sight of 

monkeys eating their own excrement turns

some people’s stomachs. They might not mind

so much if monkeys did not—so grotesquely— 

resemble human beings. 

 

Okay, beyond harsh. Disturbing. 1956, I remind myself. With RuPaul, drag brunches and such, I have to think we’ve changed in this regard. Especially gay men’s attitudes regarding drag.

 

David—and Baldwin—aren’t any kinder to women. Again, 1956. The woman is subservient to the man. At one point, David thinks he’d like to get married someday and have his wife put the kids to bed. [Sorry, Daddy’s busy smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper.] There is only one significant female character in Giovanni’s Room, Hella, David’s girlfriend. Yes, David tries to have it both ways. His elder, Jacques, tells him that a gay connection can be more than sex—love, even—but it cannot endure. “And how long, at best, can it last? Since you are both men and still have everywhere to go? Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that…in the dark.”

 

Okay, sad…

 

Back to Hella. It is noteworthy that she is absent for most of the story. She is an American who is traveling by herself in Spain for an extended period. She comes across as a strong woman and yet she still buys into the times. “[I]f women are supposed to be led by men and there aren’t any men to lead them, what happens then? What happens then?” Immediately thereafter, Hella reaches for her purse, pulls out her compact and applies lipstick. So much for strength and that European independence.

 

Giovanni’s Room. A classic, they say. A reflection of the times, I suppose. But so much disparagement. To be fair, Baldwin isn’t so kind to one—perhaps both—of his main characters, as well. A readable book, but a gloomy, severe outlook nonetheless. 

GIOVANNI'S ROOM (Book Review)

I must admit that, when a book is termed a classic, I feel intimidated. I think of titles such as Beowulf, The Canterbury Tales and James Joyce’s Ulysses. I assume the book will be challenging for my brain to access. The language will be too flowery and high-brow, perhaps even archaic. The dialogue will be too smart, as though only the author and select readers are in on the joke. I even dread the fact individual paragraphs may ramble on for a couple of pages. 

 

I pre-judge classics. I avoid them. Instead, I pick up a “beach read” without a pang of guilt.

 

This is why I told myself that I’d never read Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin which is widely regarded as a gay classic. I got so far as checking it out once from the library, but I returned it when it came due, never having opened the cover. 

 

While helping clean out the house of Evan’s highly literate aunt who died of cancer in the fall, Giovanni’s Room stared at me from a bookshelf. I’d been looking for another title Pilar had recommended to me but, alas, never found it. Giovanni called my name. 

 

All right, dammit. I took it. 

 

I finally read it this past week. 

 

What surprised me from the first page was how accessible it was. If I had to reread sentences, it was on account of my drifting mind rather than Baldwin stuffing them with six-syllable synonyms for “happy” and prepositional phrases that leaned into Old English. Set mostly in Paris, it’s true that there were a fair number of French statements, but I understood most of them—perhaps Duolingo has actually done some good. Regardless, the French asides were not essential to understanding the story.  

 

Published seventy years ago, Giovanni’s Room is about an American in Paris, David, a blond man in his late twenties who likes to drink a lot and otherwise seems aimless. (It surprised me that the main character—and every character—was white since Baldwin was Black. Being ignorant of anything about the story, I’d at least looked forward to reading about a Black gay character.) 

 

David meets Giovanni, a bartender hired for his good looks at a gay bar owned by Guillaume, one of two older, richer gay men (the other being Jacques) whom David and Giovanni view with disgust but from whom they readily accept money. There is some clever conversation between David and Giovanni on that first night, the American versus the Italian, and it is Giovanni who declares, rather quickly, that they are friends. 

“Ah!” cried Giovanni. “Don’t you know when

you have made a friend?”

 

I knew I must look foolish and that my 

question was foolish too: “So soon?”

 

“Why no,” he said, reasonably, and 

looked at this watch, “we can wait

another hour if you like. We can be-

come friends then. Or we can wait

until closing time. We can become

friends then. Or we can wait until

tomorrow, only that means that you

must come in here tomorrow and

perhaps you have something else

to do.” He put his watch away and

leaned both elbows on the bar.

“Tell me,” he said. “what is this thing

about time? Why is it better to be

late than early? People are always

saying, we must wait, we must wait.

What are they waiting for?”

 

By morning, David, who may be bisexual or just very closeted—his girlfriend Hella is wandering Spain—has gone back to Giovanni’s room, a small unkempt maid’s chamber on the outskirts of Paris. David doesn’t have the money to continue paying for his own hotel room so he stays with Giovanni in the cramped space for several months until Hella’s return.

 

This is when things get complicated and matters unravel. David and Giovanni have fallen in love but David still tells himself he loves Hella. In fact, he is intent on marrying her. 

 

The story does not end well, the fate of one character mentioned on the third page of the novel. It’s how things get to that point that made me read to the end. 

 

While Giovanni’s Room turned out to be readable, I can’t say I loved it. The passage quoted above is my favourite part and, if there had been banter like that throughout, I would have been more entertained. But this is one of those books that is lite on action and heavy on the internal thinking of the main character. I’m not sure I even liked David and it probably didn’t help that he and Giovanni find Guillaume and Jacques disgusting mainly for the fact they are older, less attractive, less fit gay men. The older men are regularly referred to as vile—if anything they may be predatory regarding the two younger characters but Giovanni and David play the older two for money and, in Giovanni’s case, work. The lines seem blurry as to who’s preying on whom.

 

I am glad I finally read Giovanni’s Room. I don’t feel quite as shallow as a gay reader even as I track down one of Rachel Reid’s gay romances from the Game Changer series which led to the steamy TV series, Heated Rivalry. And, oh, how times have changed. Wikipedia’s entry about James Baldwin noted that Giovanni’s Room, “caused great controversy when it was first published in 1956 due to its explicit homoerotic content.” Reading that remark, I am at a loss for what that content was. Most everything happens off the page and certainly there wasn’t anything explicit of the caliber of many of today’s gay works. Not that that does much for me. Really, I just wanted something more to happen on the page… something plot-driven, in particular.

 

One must-read gay novel finished. I have so many more to consider…

 

 

SOMETHING NEW

Sometimes a routine becomes a rut. I mix up my exercise options to include hiking, biking, swimming, jogging and gym workouts but, still, things can feel stale. Especially the gym workouts.

 

It being the New Year and my partner visiting from Denver, I decided to do something different. I took advantage of a cheap one-week pass at a Vancouver yoga studio and took six classes. 

 

Vancouver feels like one of the world capitals for yoga. It’s where Lululemon was born. It’s where women wear yoga pants to, well, anywhere and everywhere. It’s only a mild surprise that buses don’t alternate their Route 99 signs with a NAMASTE message. Even so, I’d sworn off yoga until Evan entered my life. 

 

During our first two years together, I held up a strong resistance. “Want to join me? I have a buddy pass.” 

 

“Um, no thanks. You be you.” He’d go do hot yoga and I’d jog, bike or hit the gym.

 

I have good reason to swear off yoga. There is not a single part of my body that is flexible. Not only did I know I wouldn’t do it right, I was certain I’d throw off and/or annoy the yogaphiles or even the instructor. 

                  What the hell is he doing?

                  Is he even trying?

                  I’m afraid he’s going to fall over and 

                  knock me down in the process.

 

Maybe I'd have done
better if I imagined
it was like Twister...

Me, too. Me, too. 

 

But sometime over the past year, I let down my guard. Every so often Evan would ask and I would cautiously say, “Okay.”

 

A class here, a class there. Would a full week make a difference? Would I finally figure out the happy baby pose? Would I stop wondering why they have a downward dog but not a flamingo? Would I gain enough balance to reduce the wobbles?

 

I’ll cut to the chase and say I’m not a yoga convert. I suppose that was never going to happen. But I got used to the hot yoga studio environment. I didn’t complain that my shirt was dripping wet—halfway through class. I may have even come up with a (semi-) fierce warrior pose.

 

Still, it says something that my favourite part of class at this studio was when the instructor would make their way around the room at the end of a session and pass out cold lavender facecloths. Yes, a little relief from that hot room, a little something to at least stop the sweat from my brow. 

 

Cold lavender facecloths are the best.

 

And so it should be no surprise that I did not sign up for a year’s membership or even ten new sessions. Pass on passes. But a break was nice. 

 

It’s back to my familiar routines. The gym can still feel like a rut but maybe I’ll mix things up and go to a city gym every so often instead of using the same old machines in my building. Maybe we’ll get another winter stretch with no rain (and, alas, no snow) and I’ll fit in some bonus bike rides. Maybe I’ll add my very own flamingo pose to my pre-workout stretching exercises.

 

Who am I kidding? Maybe not.