Being the Fat Man in the Yoga Class
Surviving the gauntlet of self-image and fear
The night before the class, I tried to rationalize not going to yoga. I’m a cis white guy, and I keep hearing about how we’re taking up more than our share of space. I imagined a whole narrative where women had found this class as their safe space from the perceived male gaze, and that my presence there — a big burly bearded and tattooed guy puffing and sweating on a mat — would be disruptive.
My partner is very perceptive, and didn’t try the direct approach. “I would have trouble with any kind of feminism that keeps you from being able to take care of yourself,” she said, perfectly deflating my procrastinative fantasy. I sighed, and we set the alarm for Way Too Early o’clock and went to bed.
The next morning I still didn’t want to go, but she had to get up for work, and I didn’t want to be an additional weight as we both tried to build morning momentum with coffee and grumbling. I got moving, she got moving, and at 7:30 there I was, walking into my first group yoga class in years.
What I hadn’t admitted to myself or my partner was my real fear: that I’d be the big ugly guy in a class full of svelte flexible young yogis. As I waited outside the studio, that particular anxiety relaxed. There was a wide variety of ages, genders, and…
