In an attempt to find a less homicidal me

The management team attended our company's 10th bday recently, and on their return this Monday they also delivered a whole load of gossip and anecdotes. I particularly enjoyed the stories about a batshit crazy creative director with *very* limited spoken English and who thought that the answer to everything was yoga.

Nicely timed, I was about to start my first ever yoga class yesterday.

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I entered the school despite my intense dislike of stinky hippies (I still think someone should tell them the crystals don't work) and ascended the staircase towards the incense and trippy music.

The first thing I see is this drop dead gorgeous bundle of lean muscle approach me with a somewhat stoned smile. He asks me if I was there for the beginners class - tho all I could hear was 'tantric sex' - and I get directed towards the office while praying that the drooling isn't quite as apparent as I feared.

Bunnies, you can't imagine the relief when I heard that he was not our teacher! At least now I had a slight chance of being able to concentrate on what I was doing...

I was early, so I spent about half an hour sitting on the floor mesmerised by the lean muscle and sheer strength at work as the more experienced yoga practicers did their thing at the other end of the room. So beautiful, so impressive, and so often manhandled by the two sex on legs yoga teachers. 

Clearly yoga WAS the answer to everything!