I am in Wisconsin, uncomfortably close to an indoor water park and the obligatory Walmart. My daughter and I are here for a couple of days to relax and escape the petty vanities that plague us back in the real world. We are here to lose ourselves among people who eat too much cheese, drink too much beer, and don't seem to get their oversized panties in a knot about exercise and lactose and gluten and the latest in overpriced designer miracle jeans that make breathing impossible. Granted, large behinds in pink spandex are not so easy on the eye, but there is something zen-like about Wisconsin. Destination yoga.
As centered as I was feeling the moment we crossed the border, my false sense of well-being was shaken when we turned on the news in the hotel room. Purveyors of information have taken a break from their nonstop conjecture and quizzing of self-proclaimed experts about the tragic murder suicide by airplane in the French Alps, and have returned to the kind of lurid stories we all love to hate. This time, the world of yoga has been shattered. Apparently, for about two years now, women have been peeling themselves off their sweaty yoga mats to accuse Bikram Choudhury of sexual assault. So much for downward facing dog as a resting pose.
More than a few times, I have tried Bikram Yoga© (yes, it is copyrighted, which in and of itself sends my admittedly limited understanding of yin and yang into a tailspin). Generally, it takes me about ten minutes to adjust to the 104 degree heat and realize I might not pass out. For the remainder of the class, I suppose I feel a little better as the anxiety about losing consciousness simply gives way to an irrepressible urge to vomit. But Bikram junkies swear by it, and they return in droves to drink the boiling Kool-Aid.
As with any "he said, she said," it's tough to know what or whom to believe. To date, six women have tossed their headbands in the ring. They all seem to have waited a bit too long, and I, for one, always regard late line calls with a healthy bit of skepticism. More often than not, it's sour grapes or wishful thinking, mind tricks that actually lead otherwise honest people to believe something that just is not true. A violent yogi? Preposterous. I could swear I heard the CNN correspondent who had interviewed both a tearful accuser and the tearful accused say they both seemed like really nice and credible people. Why can't we all just get along?
Well, the accusers may be coming forward with too little too late, but Bikram -- clad, at almost seventy years old, on international television no less, in the yoga equivalent of a Speedo -- was just wearing too little, period. As an attorney and a patriot I try my darnedest not to prejudge, but some truths are self-evident, and Speedos are just un-American. With a few exceptions, I suppose.
My heart chakra is breaking. The accuser interviewed by CNN alleges sexual harassment in the context of a threat that she would never win a yoga competition. Huh? In my universe -- where Speedos should be outlawed and serves are called out before you miss the return -- yoga is non-competitive and non-comparative. And, above all else, it is non-violent (it's called ahimsa, Bikhead). Bikram© is different, though. In a Bikram class, there are twenty-six poses, no more, no fewer, and no modifications. The poses are done in the very same sequence each time, and the instructors all follow the same script. There are strict rules about when you can drink water (certainly never soon enough to stave off dehydration) and when you can leave the room (never).
Let's face it, all of the women who have accused Bikram Choudhury of sexual assault or rape paid big bucks to subject themselves to his brand of yoga training, which sounds worse than your average army boot camp. But that certainly doesn't mean they asked for "it" (with "it" being anything beyond that twenty-sixth pose). I am certainly no stranger to questionable choices, but there is no excuse for sexual assault or rape.
The guru of sweat and allegedly unwanted advanced poses has a pretty airtight defense, though. In law, we might call it res ipsa loquitor -- the thing speaks for itself. Look at me, says the practically naked old guy with the odd comb over. Why would I have to use force? There be line of millions of women wanting to have sex with me. Women loves me. I don't do that. I don't have to. Seriously? I try to avert my eyes and ears, but he goes on. When asked whether he had sex with other students -- women who were not accusing him -- his response was "yes and no." Huh? His explanation did not help at all, but it was chilling. Those countless others, with whom he "yes" did and "no" did not have sex, committed suicide because he rejected them. My position: guilty as a result of extreme ick factor.
From what I can tell, the scantily clad self anointed modern day Jesus will probably hold onto his millions and flow back into his voluntary confinement to a stinky studio heated to 104 degrees, although I am betting the boiling Kool-Aid will be a bit of a harder sell. There will be more accusations and more denials, and there will always be the draw of extreme physical discomfort and unhealthy competition. Thank goodness for Wisconsin, where folks just go about their business without too much fuss. Where the ugly American reigns supreme, and would never, ever wear a Speedo.
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