The Yoga Class Incident
- Mavis Brennan
- Aug 24
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 30
Sex After Seventy - Episode 2
They said it was "Gentle Yoga."
I thought: Perfect. Something slow, relaxing, and maybe -- just maybe -- it would limber me up enough for bedroom activities. You know how it is at our age -- everything requires more preparation than a NASA launch. Harold used to say I needed more flexibility, and while Harold turned out to be a lying cheat who ran off with his dental hygienist, he wasn't wrong about the flexibility part.
The instructor was young, beautiful, and wore leggings so tight they could have been painted on by Michelangelo himself. She had that glow that comes from drinking wheatgrass and never having experienced a mortgage payment. Her name was Serenity -- of course it was -- and she kept talking about "opening your hips" and "releasing deep tension" in that breathy voice people use when they're either teaching yoga or selling phone sex.
She chirped, "Let's start with Happy Baby!"
I thought: Great! Cute name, fun image. How hard could it be?
Famous last words. Right up there with "What could go wrong?" and "I'll just have one drink."
Apparently, Happy Baby involves lying on your back, grabbing your feet, and flailing around like you're auditioning for some very specialized adult entertainment. Within thirty seconds, I realized the only thing "happy" about this baby was that it wasn't paying my chiropractor bills.
Two minutes in, my hips locked up tighter than my late mother's purse at a church potluck. I was trapped -- genuinely, physically trapped -- in what can only be described as a position I hadn't attempted since the Carter administration, and even then only after several glasses of wine and dim lighting.
"Breathe into the pose," Serenity whispered, floating over with her essential oils and judgmental flexibility. "Let your body surrender to the opening."
Honey, the only thing opening was my mouth to scream for help.
She started pressing on my thighs like she was trying to close an overstuffed suitcase, and I'm telling you, it got intimate fast. Not sexy-intimate -- more like "your gynecologist is running late and needs to speed things up." My breathing sounded like I was either summoning demons or having the kind of experience that requires mood lighting and Barry White.
Other students were sneaking glances. One woman actually started filming -- probably thinking she'd caught some kind of tantric breakthrough instead of a seventy-plus-old woman having what appeared to be a very public moment of ecstasy but was actually a hip flexor emergency.
"I think I need help," I gasped.
"Let me get Brad," Serenity said.
Brad. Of course his name was Brad. He appeared like a mirage -- late thirties, cargo shorts, the kind of helpful smile that said he'd assisted many women with their stretching needs. He positioned himself at my feet while Serenity worked my thighs, both of them coaching me to "relax and let it happen naturally."
I wanted to explain that at my age, nothing happens naturally anymore without proper warm-up, lubrication, and a heating pad on standby.
For twenty excruciating minutes, they worked on me. Brad kept encouraging me to "open up" while Serenity reminded me to "breathe through the intensity." My inner thighs were making sounds like industrial Velcro, and I was pretty sure everyone in the room thought they were witnessing either a medical emergency or performance art.
Finally -- finally -- something gave way with a pop that echoed through the studio like a champagne cork. I was free, sprawled on my mat like a starfish, sweating like I'd just completed a marathon or something considerably more athletic.
"How do you feel?" Brad asked, kneeling beside me with genuine concern.
"Like I just went three rounds with a professional wrestler," I panted.
He handed me his card. "I do private sessions if you'd like to work on your flexibility more... intimately."
I blinked at him. Sweet man, clearly dedicated to helping older women with their physical limitations.
"That's very thoughtful, but I think I need to take this slower. Maybe build up my endurance gradually."
"I completely understand," he said with the kind of knowing smile that suggested he'd helped many women work through similar challenges. "When you're ready for more intensive stretching, just call me."
They offered me water, a cold compress, and a complimentary membership. Serenity suggested I might benefit from her "Deep Release Workshop" next weekend.
I told them the only position I'd be assuming for the foreseeable future was horizontal with a heating pad and strong painkillers.
Limping to my car, I felt Brad's card in my pocket. Such a nice young man, so committed to helping mature women with their flexibility issues. I might just take him up on those private sessions once I recover. After all, practice makes perfect, and at my age, I need all the help I can get with proper stretching techniques.
The moral? Sex after seventy requires preparation, patience, and possibly professional assistance. Also, always tell someone where you're going when attempting new positions -- you never know when you'll need an emergency extraction.
Pro Tip: If the yoga instructor looks like they stepped out of a fitness magazine and uses words like "surrender" and "opening," you're probably in for more than you bargained for. Bring snacks and emergency contacts.
Love, Mavis
Beef Stroganoff That'll Make You Moan
The Recipe That Saved My Third Date
(And Nearly Ruined My Reputation)
Listen, sugar, this isn't just dinner—it's foreplay on a plate. I've been making this stroganoff since 1969, and let me tell you, it's more reliable than most of the men I've dated. Rich, creamy, satisfying, and it actually gets better with age. Unlike Harold.
This recipe has closed more deals than a used car salesman and opened more doors than an over-eager bellhop. The mailman still lingers when he smells it cooking, and my neighbor Frank has developed a suspicious habit of needing to "borrow sugar" every time I fire up the stove.
The Seductive Ingredients
For the Beef (the strong, silent type)
1 1/2 lbs beef sirloin, cut into thin strips (like my patience with bad lovers)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium onion, sliced (tears are optional but cathartic)
8 oz mushrooms, sliced thick (because thin is overrated)
2 cloves garlic, minced (or 1 tablespoon from a jar—life's too short)
3 tablespoons flour
1 can beef broth (14.5 oz)
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce (say it three times fast, I dare you)
Salt and pepper to taste
For the Cream Sauce (the smooth operator)
1 cup sour cream (full fat—we're not playing games here)
2 tablespoons fresh dill (or 1 tablespoon dried, if fresh isn't available)
12 oz egg noodles, wide and eager
The Passionate Process
Heat things up: Get that oil hot in a large skillet over medium-high heat. You want it shimmering like a mirage, promising good things to come.
Brown the beef: Add beef strips and cook until browned on all sides, about 6-8 minutes. Don't crowd them—give each piece room to perform. Remove beef and set aside. It needs a little rest before the main event.
Build the foundation: In the same skillet (don't you dare wash it—that's where the flavor lives), add onions and mushrooms. Cook until they're soft and golden, about 5 minutes. They should smell like Sunday morning and second chances.
Add the aromatics: Toss in that garlic and cook for another minute until fragrant. Your kitchen should smell like a French bistro run by someone's very talented grandmother.
Make it thick: Sprinkle flour over the vegetables and stir for 2 minutes. This is your thickening agent—think of it as relationship commitment for your sauce.
The liquid courage: Slowly pour in beef broth and Worcestershire, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. Nobody likes lumps, in sauce or elsewhere. Bring to a simmer.
The reunion: Return beef to the skillet with any accumulated juices (waste not, want not). Simmer for 10-15 minutes until the beef is tender and the sauce has thickened to coat the back of a spoon.
Meanwhile, boil water: Cook those noodles according to package directions. They should be tender but still have some backbone—like a good man.
The climax: Remove skillet from heat. Stir in sour cream and dill. Do NOT let it boil after adding the sour cream, or it'll curdle faster than milk in August. We want smooth and creamy, not chunky and tragic.
The presentation: Serve immediately over those beautiful egg noodles. Garnish with extra dill if you're feeling fancy.
Mavis's Wisdom Notes
Serve with a good red wine and candlelight—even if you're eating alone, treat yourself right
This recipe serves 4-6, or 2 people with healthy appetites and flexible dinner schedules
Leftovers reheat beautifully and somehow taste even better the next day (like some relationships I've had)
If your sour cream curdles, don't panic—just call it "rustic" and serve it anyway. Confidence sells everything
Pairs excellently with crusty bread, honest conversation, and low lighting
Secret ingredient: A generous spirit and the understanding that some things in life are worth taking your time with.
Remember: cooking is just chemistry with more wine and better results. Don't overthink it, don't rush it, and for heaven's sake, taste as you go. Trust me on this one.
Until Next Time, Darlings...
Well, honey, that's another lesson learned in the glamorous world of sex after seventy. Who knew that "Happy Baby" could be so misleading, or that my quest for bedroom flexibility would end with me sprawled on a yoga mat like roadkill while two beautiful people worked me over like a stubborn pickle jar?
I hope my tale of yogic misadventure has taught you something valuable—namely, that when an instructor named Serenity starts talking about "opening" and "surrendering," you're probably in for more than you bargained for. And when a helpful young man in cargo shorts offers private stretching sessions, well... sometimes the universe provides exactly what you need, even if you didn't know you needed it.
Remember: flexibility is important at any age, but so is knowing your limits. Also, when someone offers to help you with your "deep release," make sure you're both talking about the same thing.
Keep stretching (carefully), stay hydrated, and always bring emergency contacts when attempting new positions. And if all else fails, there's always Brad's card in my pocket and the promise of more... personalized instruction.
Mavis ❤️
P.S. - I'm still walking funny, but I'm calling it "post-yoga glow." Brad texted to check on my recovery. Such a thoughtful young man.
Want to know more about the woman behind these delightfully scandalous adventures?
Click below for the full scoop on yours truly—including why I believe sex after seventy should come with a dessert menu and how I learned that polyester allergies extend beyond fabric.
Images & Mavis AI ©2025 Gael MacLean
