I didn't think anyone would take my Hinge notice seriously. My ideal first date is… hot yoga. The message was partly a joke, written by a friend because he didn't know what to write. In any case, I thought the message would explain the series of yoga images scattered across my profile, demonstrating to potential suitors that I wasn't simply a yoga practitioner like most Angelenos who see vinyasa as just another workout trend.
I was a “serious yogi” and hanging out with me would mean respecting my daily practice and being okay with the 3,000 little Ganesha statues hidden in every corner of my apartment.
Still, I was surprised and a little amused when Noah asked me, in all seriousness, if I'd like to go to a yoga class with him and then have dinner. In my effort to go on as many dates as possible as quickly as possible, I said yes, of course. I was a couple of months into an eight-year relationship that ended badly. I had convinced myself that it would take 100 bad first dates before I found anyone remotely interesting. At least a yoga date for date number 14 would be a little more exciting than telling life stories over drinks at the local bar.
In the text message conversation that followed planning our date, Noah and I exchanged musical tastes. He's a raver and loves EDM, and I'm a Swiftie who, as it turns out, also loves EDM. We learned that we attended Chapman University at the same time. We both worked at Fox during the same years. And we shared our appreciation for tofu, which he called a “godsend,” which made my vegan heart skip a beat.
Noah and I met at a popular hot yoga studio in Hollywood for our one-hour Bikram-vinyasa fusion date. There was something familiar about him that I initially attributed to them having crossed paths in college at some point. In the moments before class, we unloaded our gym bags and shoes into separate lockers outside the yoga room as we exchanged greetings that I expected to be awkward but somehow felt easy and unforced. My interest was piqued.
In the yoga room, we placed our mats in the second row. When the class started and the instructor dimmed the lights to an orange glow, I realized that hot yoga might be a horrible first date idea. We were two strangers, our yoga mats were too close together, and we were already sweating profusely while the yoga teacher was instructing us on sun salutations. I couldn't decide whether to focus on the class, the poses, and keep my breathing slow or whether I should continually try to look cute since it was a date. I accidentally caught Noah's gaze in the mirror and, through facial expressions, tried to communicate to him that I was having fun and was in no way subtly judging his yoga practice.
At some point during class, Noah took off his shirt and, even through my sweat-filled gaze, I caught a glimpse of his abdomen in the mirror. She looked me in the eyes just as I was starting to blush and I looked away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught looking at me. Suddenly, the room felt hotter and more humid than before. I struggled to steady my breathing. Yes, this was definitely a horrible but interesting first date idea.
The teacher instructed us to get on our stomachs to perform a backbend sequence. My eyes met Noah's in the mirror again. This time I turned to look at him and he smiled a surprisingly familiar smile that meant, “I know this is weird, but I'm having fun too.”
“It was a nice class,” Noah said once our hour was over and we returned to the air-conditioned studio lobby. “It's a way to see your date sweaty and half naked.”
I laughed in agreement as we split up to shower and change for dinner.
We met again at Cafe Gratitude on Larchmont Boulevard and ordered dishes called “I Am Grateful” and “I Am Remarkable” while recounting the class from our perspectives. She told me about her interest in yoga and how she recently started practicing it as a way to help with mobility. I told him that yoga keeps me grounded. I showed the book I kept in my bag, a story about Jewish life in modern times, which led to a discussion about how we both grew up Jews on opposite sides of the country. I liked how neither of us ordered a drink with dinner, choosing water instead of alcohol, as the conversation remained interesting and focused. I liked how nice he was to the waiter and that his eye contact put me at ease. I liked how after paying the bill, he walked me to my car and asked if he could kiss me.
I nodded and he closed the distance between us. We kissed and with it came a memory: first year of college, orientation week or shortly after, I was at a soccer party with the girl who would soon be the big girl in my sorority. He was drunk, talkative and looking to make friends. I started talking to a freshman boy, and that conversation soon turned to kissing, like most drunken college flirts did back then.
My eyes widened, I pulled away from the kiss. “Have we done this before?” I asked.
Noah blushed and then nodded softly.
“I think the first year,” he said, “at a party.”
“A football party?”
“Yeah!” He laughed and so did I.
We kissed again. It was the kind of kiss you don't forget. The kind that makes sense.
“Well, we have to do this again,” he concluded.
We said good night. He texted me a song to listen to. I played it in the car over and over until I got home.
Until Noah, I thought an invisible string was just the name of a Taylor Swift song. Now I know better.
The author is a community builder, writer and yoga teacher. Lives in Echo Park. She is on Instagram: @allegramarcelle.
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