Yesterday evening, I went to kundalini yoga for the first time. Though kundalini sounds like a type of pasta, it is actually a strenuous, aerobic form of yoga characterized by deep breathing, repetitive motion, and the fact that its masters dress up in swami outfits, turbans and all. As a first-time visitor, I was, to my tremendous dismay, not allowed to wear a turban.

The kundalini yoga center is in Union Square, and the rush-hour commute from the Upper West Side was enough to leave me cross-eyed with tension and bristling with ill will toward the universe. These feelings began to dissipate at the center, which was tranquil enough to freeze a hummingbird in mid-flight, and their vestiges were banished by the yoga itself. The movements, at first, seemed almost comical to my Western sensibilities, but their physical and mystical effects were undeniable. Rob likened the profundity and spirituality of the experience to going to church, but since one does not emerge from kundalini yoga basking in the hypocritical glow of moral superiority, his metaphor evaporated upon contact with the atmosphere.

After class, there was free yogi tea. Yum.

I want to go back regularly, but I am afraid that the actual process of getting there on the subway at rush hour will be so traumatizing that even the impressive power of the yoga itself will be enough only to return me to my pre-commuting insanity.

I am also afraid that I will never get to wear a turban.