How to Pick Up a Yogi

You don't.

While I'm sure that there are wild one-night stands at Jois' yoga shala in Mysore, KYM doesn't have the random hookups (well, not that I know about anyway). But that's not the weird thing.

Instead of the dance you do with potential mates, the one where you slowly reveal your crazy in the most chill manner possible, yogis just come out with it. I have had conversations about suffering from chronic depression with people whose last names I do not know; one woman's constipation is discussed casually as if we're deciding where to go for lunch; one man spoke at great length about menstruation (which, since we're on the topic, when I write my future bestseller, Ways To Turn Women Off From You Totally and Completely Forever, that will most def be included in the top five, because you know what? When it comes down it, I don't want a guy talking about my cycle. I just don't. Once, long ago, when I said I wanted an evolved man? Remember? Anyone? I was lying. Bring on the sports-watching lager drinkers).

If you have someone in mind, you could always email me. Not that I'm begging. Another thing I'd like to clear up: Remember when I said that the world would be a better place with readily available male prostitutes? I totally take it back.

Witness the following: Sunday afternoon, I'm walking back to my hotel and this dude appears next to me. As they do. Our convo:
"Madam, madam."
"What?"
"My name is Matthew."
"Great."
"What is your name?"
"Nancy." (Sorry Schwartzman! This has become my India alias.)
"Where are you from?"
"The States."
"I am an escort."
"I am not interested." (And I am thinking, I am not interested in your offer of a tour of Chennai's temples, or beaches, or just about anything else. Go away, cookie man!)
"No, madam, I am a call boy."
"I am totally not interested."

Ew, and then ew again. What vibe is it that I give off that says, "Come to me and offer to let me pay you for sex?" I'm just curious.