Last week I was supposed to take up yoga.

When we arrived at class, we were told we had the wrong night. I took this as a sign from God.

I recalled the yogis I knew.

There was the master of the inadvertent paradox, retired New York Yankees catcher, Yogi Berra, who famously said about baseball (and about life), “90% of the game is half mental.” And of course recall the patron of “pick-i-nick” baskets, Yogi Bear.

But this involved a different kind of yogi altogether.

I sensed I would need to get beyond some cultural stereotypes: turbans, incense, chutney, Jewish actor Sam Jaffe playing Gung Din. I envisioned swilling green tea over Hindu philosophy with Ben Kingsley.

You wouldn't think it, but Baltimore is quite a funky little yoga hotbed of sorts. My unofficial research reveals that Baltimore has about as many yoga classes as massage parlors and snowball stands in July. The only difference is that the massage parlors take VISA™.

But when I told some people I was trying yoga, their reactions caused flashbacks to my first colonoscopy. I would suffer for my curiosity, I was told. I would flirt with total consciousness. I felt a little like Bill Murray’s character in Caddyshack.

Turns out, I’d need equipment to do yoga, too. I had to obtain a mat suitable for writhing. And I’d need lots of liniment.

If that weren't bad enough, there's another kind of yoga where you do about two-dozen physical contortions in a closed, heated area. Think: aisle seat on a crowded transatlantic flight watching the 2008 remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still. Then imagine the plane starting to orbit the planet Mercury.

I guess this Wednesday there’s little choice. I need to face my feet. I’ll let you know what happens.