Every now and then, I vow to expand my personal horizons beyond my usual activities, which include writing my autobiography in iambic pentameter, teaching a class in advanced sarcasm at the local community college, and doing the same exercise routine that I’ve done for decades.

Last year I took a beginner’s class in hatha yoga in hopes of improving my strength and flexibility, and of meeting a woman to date who could cross her knees behind her head. But unlike Goldilocks, I met only women who were too young, too old, too weird or too dumb, but none that were just right. I enjoyed the class, but a shoulder injury and later surgery kept me from continuing.

A couple of weeks ago I thought I’d try yoga again, this time the kundalini variety. According to the yoga studio’s website, kundalini is the original and most spiritual form of yoga. “In addition to strengthening the health and well-being of the physical body, kundalini is very useful for emotional balance, mental clarity, stress relief, and personal transformation,” it said. Good enough. Considering that the only spiritual practice I’ve had in the recent past is imbibing spirits in liquid form, I thought it would be worth a shot, so I signed up for the eight-session course.

This time I vowed I would focus on the teachings, and not on ogling my female classmates. But if I happened to meet a woman who could touch her nose to the base of her spine, all the better.

I showed up for the first class several minutes early. I was directed to a surprisingly tiny room that was empty, where I unrolled my yoga mat and sat down. I hoped only a few people had signed up because given the cramped space, this might inadvertently turn into a tantric sex class.

A few minutes later, an attractive 40-ish woman entered. She had short blond hair, wore no makeup and had a nice, warm smile. She introduced herself as Nora, the instructor. She spread out a sheepskin mat and sat down on it. I tried to stop wondering whether she could tuck her ankles behind her shoulder blades.

We chatted for a couple of minutes, and then the remaining two students entered. One was a tall, 50-ish redheaded woman, and the other was a drop-dead gorgeous 20-something college girl who wore her yoga pants so low that when she sat down beside me an inch of nubile butt-crack peeked out. I mentally groaned and again reminded myself that I was here for spiritual training.

We took turns introducing ourselves and explaining why we were there. I thought about breaking the ice by joking that I was there to meet a flexible hottie who could use chopsticks with her toes, but thought better of it. So I explained that I was recovering from shoulder surgery and wanted to regain some strength and flexibility, and was also interested in kundalini for its spiritual aspects. In other words, I lied.

Tall Redhead said she was recovering from a knee injury and the death of a loved one, so she was seeking to new balance her life. Young Hottie had just given up alcohol and was looking for a spiritual path. A merry three were we.

Nora spent several minutes describing her many years of experience and training in kundalini. She said we were welcome to address her by her spiritual name. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but it sounded like someone saying “Jar Jar Binks” while sneezing. The image of the obnoxious character from those atrocious Star Wars prequels leapt into my mind’s eye and stayed there.

Jar Jar/Nora went on to detail the origins of kundalini and how it made its way to America. As she did so, my tailbone began to hurt. I hadn’t expected to be sitting for so long. I thought we’d be getting into poses such as Downward Dog and Upward Hyena a little more quickly.

Jar Jar told us to sit cross-legged and she’d teach us some basic chants. I’d been sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest. My left knee had been bothering me for weeks, and after I sat cross-legged for one minute, it began to hurt pretty badly. This did not bode well for my future as a yogi.

“Kundalini is a powerful practice,” Jar Jar said. “Through breath work, chanting, asanas, and the use of sound, it can awaken your third eye to the Divine and transform your life quickly. You may find it disorienting at first.”

That’s when I experienced the awakening of the cynical part of my brain. I feel like I’m at a Deepak Chopra lecture, it thought. Shut up, brain! I told it. We’re here to open up to spirituality. And stop thinking about Hot Girl’s ass, dammit!

Jar Jar wrote some Sanskrit phrases on the board. The first one we would chant would be ong namo, guru dev namo, which means roughly, I call upon my own inner guidance, the teacher within me. She told us to press our palms together, hold our hands at heart level, and close our eyes. “I’ll chant first, then you repeat it with me,” she said. So we began: Ahhhhhng nahhhm-oh, guurruu daaaay-yuv nahhhm-oooh.

I had a sudden flash of insight. After years of confusion, I suddenly understood some lyrics from an old Beatles’ song that I’d struggled for years to comprehend. Whenever I listened to “Across the Universe,” it sounded as if John Lennon were singing “Jackaroo Dave,” which made no sense whatsoever. But now I realized he was singing “Jai guru dev.” Jar Jar was right. This kundalini was powerful stuff.

We chanted the phrase again. And again. The pronunciation “guru day-yuv” sounded a bit like “Guru Dave,” which conjured up an image in my brain of David Letterman in a turban and yogi garb. I involuntarily chuckled, then tried to cover it with a cough. I warned my cerebellum again: Stop it! Stay in the moment, dammit!

I focused on my knee, which felt like it had an icepick sticking in it. Guru Dave disappeared from my mind.

“There are energy centers throughout your body,” Jar Jar said. “The root chakra is the area between your anus and sex organs. Focus your awareness there and lift it up a bit.” I wasn’t used to focusing on those particular body parts unless having sex or Montezuma’s Revenge, but I managed.

“Now focus your awareness about three finger-widths below your navel. Don’t flex this area hard, but tighten it maybe ten percent.” I feared that all this abdominal muscle tightening and sphincter manipulation would make me spring a gas leak. I began to regret having that bean burrito for lunch. Plus my lower back began to hurt in synchrony with my knee.

“Now try to focus on your third eye,” Jar Jar continued. “It’s about at the level of the eyebrows and about a quarter inch deep.” I hadn’t brought a ruler with me, but I tried to focus on the spot as described. My closed eyes involuntarily crossed and rolled upward, but my third eye remained stubbornly blind. I’m not good at multi-tasking, so I let my lower parts relax. I began to understand why elderly people wear Depends. Maybe they try to use too many muscles at once.

We then moved on to pranayama, or breathing exercises. Proper breathing technique, said Jar Jar, is first to fill the belly with air, then the midsection, then the upper chest. We did this for a few minutes—enough time for me to get slightly light-headed. Was I doing it wrong, or was I really out of shape? And were we ever going to get up off the goddamn mat? Now my right gluteus medius was beginning to hurt.

“Now we’re going to do agni-prasana, also known as breath of fire,” Jar Jar said. She demonstrated the technique by rolling her shoulders back and inhaling deeply, then rolling her shoulders forward like Quasimodo and exhaling. “We do this rhythmically, inhaling and exhaling fully. Now let’s all try it.” Each of us successfully emulated Jar Jar.

“Okay, now this is the proper way to do it,” Jar Jar said, and then increased her breathing rate tenfold, practically panting like a dog, her body moving like a human bellows operated by a manic chimpanzee. Tall Redhead, Hot Girl and I tried to keep up, but it was impossible. I was determined to try as hard as I could. I was wheezing like an asthmatic window-peeper. I should quit smoking, I thought, and then remembered that I don’t smoke. Bright spots danced before my eyes, and I saw myself receding from reality in a bright tunnel. I was either on the verge of enlightenment or a stroke.

Jar Jar’s voice came from far away. “Don’t push too hard at first,” she said. “Slow down and stay comfortable.”

I did, and managed to stay conscious. After that I don’t remember much, thanks to my brain being either over- or under-oxygenated. I do remember semi-consciously sitting and doing some other movements, but we never stood up off our mats. At one point we were told to raise our arms to our sides, and Hot Girl accidentally stuck her middle finger in my ear. We both pretended it didn’t happen.

Finally we lay down on our mats and had a brief relaxation period before class ended. I snuck a peek at Hot Girl, who lay serenely beside me. I closed my eyes and watched the starbursts of color inside my eyelids. I still felt a bit woozy from trying too hard to do the breath of fire. I was not relaxed.

After a few minutes Jar Jar told us to sit up. We again chanted ong namo, guru dev namo, and I assumed that was the end of class. But no. Jar Jar announced that we would close each class by singing a little song. She sang it, and asked us to follow along. Thankfully it was brief, because we had to sing it three times. I should say they had sing it three times. I abstained, because my singing voice makes Bob Dylan sound like Luciano Pavarotti.

The song was not some ancient Indian prayer set to music, it was some little ditty about journeys and love and sunsine. I don’t remember the lyrics, because by then my cynical brain was on high alert.This is silly, it thought. I agree, I told it.

At last, class was dismissed, and we slowly rose to our feet. “That was amazing,” the Tall Redhead told Jar Jar. “Thank you for teaching us.”

“That was so powerful,” said Hot Girl. “I’m so excited about this.”

Jar Jar turned her smiling face toward me.

“Heh-heh,” was all I could manage.

We said our goodbyes and I limped out into the warm night air, my knee and back and ass in severe pain. I looked up at the few visible stars above the strip mall and slowly hobbled to my car, feeling a mixture of relief and regret—relief that the class was over, and regret because I knew that this wasn’t for me.

And yet these women all were so nice. They were lovely, they were sincere, and they yearned for a spiritual practice that would bring some peace, joy and direction to their lives. So who, except the most jaded cynic, wouldn’t be willing to devote seven more evenings of his life to learning about an ancient practice that might eventually lead to a more open heart and mind, a sense of community, and possibly even a cool new spiritual name?

I got into my Honda and drove home, and never went back again.

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