My goal upon returning to New York from a two-week trip to Mexico was to keep the full beard that had sprouted as I unwound in a Oaxacan beach town. A low bar, you may be thinking, but I suffer from a condition WebMD is calling “trichotillomania,” which causes me to pull out my own facial hair as a self-soothing mechanism. Removed from expectations of the everyday and the chaos of the city that wear away at my fragile psyche, I no longer needed to self-soothe because I was mollified by everything around me—sun, surf, sand. (Yes, I invented the concept of a beach vacation.)
I had gone to yoga twice in Oaxaca, and I thought attending some sessions in the city could help maintain my serenity-pilled spirit. My high-vibrational friend Kento suggested I try a new studio he heard was good that offered a $35 unlimited week. To make sure I got the most out of the deal, I started going multiple times a day. Searching for new student specials, I hopped around from studio to studio, instructor to instructor, practice to practice—Bikram, Hatha, Ashtanga, Qi Gong, Vinyasa, Yin, Yang—intent on keeping my idle hands from becoming the devil’s depilatory tools. And it was working; my follicle fondling had subsided. Maybe yoga really is “the architecture of peace,” which is the subtitle of a Netflix documentary on the subject. All I had to do was show up to studio like it was my full-time job.
While I was discussing my newfound Om obsession with my cardio-conscious friend Mary Grace, she asked if I had heard of The Class. Curious, I found a promo trailer featuring testimonials from the likes of A-list actresses Emma Stone and Naomi Watts. “It was never easy to describe for anyone, umm, because everyone takes away their own experience,” a cryptic Watts explained. Stone alleged that the first time she went she “felt terror.” From a noncelebrity initiate: “What happens here in this space is very different in the way you’re being challenged to look at yourself and at things that are coming up.” Being at The Class seemed important. I would finally feel seen. My struggles with compulsive disorders would fuel my own Oscar-worthy performance.
The Class, with its austere name, appeared to have distilled the spiritual underpinnings of yoga into the definitive exercise practice, using language white women such as myself could understand. Like Alison Roman’s most viral recipe, which cannily packaged a preparation featuring exotic culinary ingredients as “The Stew,” the name offered clarity. A name as rootless, placeless, and cultureless as those who are drawn to it, a class of consumers tired of having to choose, who seek salvation in its decisive power. I booked a spot.
A little before 11:00 a.m. the following Monday, I entered the Woolworth Building from a side entrance marked by a gold-plated sign reading, “The Class.” A small foyer led me to a fire door bearing words of welcome: “Breathe as your rise. We will meet you on the third floor,” which is marketing copy for “no elevator.” On floor three were more breathy admonishments—“Take a slow inhale.” The Class had already begun.
Exhaling, I opened the door to a modest room that was part reception area, part gift shop, with Rupi Kaur books, crystals, and expensive moisturizers sharing shelf space. The gold, white, pink, gray, and brown color story gave off distinctly earth-goddess vibes. Immediately, I felt like an interloper: Not only was I the sole man in sight, I had also decided to write about my experience. I retreated to the bathroom and proceeded to change into the two pieces of Lululemon I own.
Maybe yoga really is “the architecture of peace,” which is the subtitle of a Netflix documentary on the subject. All I had to do was show up to studio like it was my full-time job.
Inside the studio, branded mud-brown mats covered the floor. Large perimeter windows with translucent shades filled the space with a muted natural light; on one of the sills, a large votive candle flickered. Finding myself in the mirrored wall, I prepared for my debut. Our instructor, Sophia, equipped with a headset mic and a soothing British accent, burst into the buzzy room. She faced a camera that streamed The Class to online subscribers. I had expected a yoga-like progression, but as the up-tempo music started and the choreo cues set in, I realized this was no namaste number. Over the mic, errant moves were swiftly corrected—“Please stay with us; it’s left, right.” Sophia’s tenacious prodding felt at odds with the “This is your practice” or “You can lay in child’s pose for the whole class” spiels I had become accustomed to during my month of magical thinking.
Between bouts of heavy cardio, the music quieted as we were instructed to let go—to make noise and move freely—as if we weren’t imprisoned by our mats or captured on camera. While other participants half-heartedly bobbled around and let out small sighs, a Jemima Kirke look-alike three mats down (I was still hoping for my celeb sighting) was practically speaking in tongues during these improvisational interludes, her arms writhing as she released deep guttural moans. Emma and Naomi would have been proud.
By the end of the hour, my mat looked sweatier and saltier and splotchier than everyone else’s—a fact I’ll attribute to male body chemistry. Released into the tiny lobby, I felt little sense of transformation. Classmates were thrust back into the reality of the renovated third-floor office suite, jockeying over limited space, confined to changing in the corner with our sweat-drenched clothes bunched in a pile. My high hopes, built up by the A-list trailer, had been dashed by this Z-list Zumba class—an overcrowded room of noncelebrity women (and the woman in me) doing repetitive dance moves to Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ’Em.”
Because I had purchased a two-for-one special, I felt compelled to give The Class a second try and booked a session led by founder and sheEO, Taryn Toomey. Struggling again with the choreo, I mistakenly took a W train to city hall that ended up being a Q train to Brooklyn and showed up too late to join. I had also missed the T train to Taryntown.
At the gym later that day, I listened to an interview she gave on the “wellness-focused” podcast Hurdle. Asked about the problem of overexercising, Toomey opined that “addictions to workouts” often signal “that you’re covering up something that’s so much deeper.” The Toomey truth tea was piping hot. She continued: “If you’re using [movement] because you just don’t want to look at something [in your life], that’s when it’s time to pause and have a conversation with yourself.” A conversation with yourself … or with your column readers, perhaps?
Was she right? Maybe my haterade, my catty criticism, is what’s causing my mania, manifested in the mauling of my mottled mug. After binging on mindfulness, I returned to mindlessly pulling at my pelt. My consumption of classes mirrored my compulsive condition—swaths of stolen stubble had been replaced by slots swindled from my schedule. At this point, my best move might be to just go back to Mexico, a traditional remedy for malcontent Americans. Actually, The Class is hosting a five-day “retreatment” in Yucatán this November. But I think I’ll do my own thing. I’m calling it “The Vacation.”