It just may be true that there’s a connection between sex and yoga. 

“Arousal, sweating and heavy breathing lead to predictable results,” writes William Broad in The New York Times. And may I add, duh?

I used to teach at a downtown studio where the population of yoginis to yogins was like, 50 to 1. While at most studios the adjustments I offered were to ask students to pull the sides of their waist back, or to engage something and at the same time let something go, at this studio I offered the kind of helpful advice you do not often hear from your yoga teacher.

“You might want to put on some undies,” I said to one yogini, “because the whole room can tell you’re a real brunette.” To another I offered, “If you want to get married, I might suggest you do not give away the dairy with that outfit.” For some reason, they asked me to not to teach at that studio anymore.

They probably thought I was just another suburban housewife looking for a little excitement in the yoga room while the kids were at Kindergarten. And you know, to some degree they were right. I was looking for relief from my aching back (actually, I was looking for the Pilates room in my local gym, but I got lost, and that’s how I found yoga).  But please, don’t sell us suburban housewives short; we can be a rocking bunch.

One day early in my yoga journey I went to an Anusara yoga class, but the teacher did not show up. So the manager offered that I should take a class in Kundalini instead. Of course, I don’t know the difference but I do know that the Universe created this opportunity for some purpose (I learned that in a yoga class somewhere).

The teacher had us sit and breathe. Ha ha ha, hee hee hee. It was just like giving birth, except you know, without the blinding screaming pain from being ripped apart. I’m thinking, “Okay, I’m done with this nonsense.”

That night my husband and I got the kids to bed and then got down to business since I suppose one of us was still awake. And all of a sudden, I am on the freaking ceiling.

“What was that?”  Mike asked. Because truthfully, after 10 years of marriage and two toddlers things can get a little predictable in the sack, if those things even still exist. “Tell me what I did so I can do it again,” he said.

“I don’t think it was you,” I said. “I think it was that yoga class I took today.”

 “Holy cow,” he said. “You need to go back right away.”

 And that is how I became a yoga teacher.

Michelle Berman Marchildon is an award-winning journalist, a former corporate executive and a survivor of 50+ years of life. She’s the author of “Finding More on the Mat,” a yoga memoir, and a Columnist for Elephant Journal.  She teaches the style of yoga formerly known as Anusara-Inspired, and Power-Vinyasa Yoga in Denver, Co. She is NOT an Ambassador for Lululemon, and has been promised she will never be one.