I went to a trendy little yoga studio last spring-summer. It was in a part of town that had been run down for years, industrial. But some reclamation projects had gutted most of the warehouses and converted them into living space as well as space for restaurants and boutique gyms (think places where people do aerial silks). This same studio was offering a more “intense” version of yoga where coupled with stretching there would be some cardio. While I hadn’t done yoga in a while, I had been going to the gym regularly (at this time) and was trying to find a new manner of fitness (thinking returning to yoga would be nice). I realized immediately upon arriving that this was not the place for me. When I strode in for my crack-of-dawn class, I found I was the only one who wasn’t in a full-face of makeup, nor had I bothered to style my hair, looking more like I’d rolled straight out of bed in my baggy sweats whilst everyone else was donned in skin-tight, expensive outfits. “One of these does not belong,” I pondered to myself, knowing I was the glaring oddball in the room of gorgeous, svelt twenty-somethings. No matter. I’d already paid and was going to try to enjoy myself; taking a spot towards the front. When the instructor arrived, all of 22 maybe, she b-lined for me and began to detail what we’d be doing in the class. These were all things I was more than capable of, but her tone edged on concern as though I was fragile or unfit. Um, at best I was 10–15 years older than everyone in the tiny studio, but by no means fragile. It was when this smug punk snidely offered the “Are you sure? We can always refund you,” that I was determined I was going to keep up or die trying at this point. I stayed and it kicked my ass, but out of sheer principle I kept up. Sure, I was sore for a few days after and I didn’t go back — giving a very honest review online instead of just what kind of clientele they expected to entertain there.