As we kissed, I realized a surprising truth about my date. We had history

I didn’t think anyone would take my Hinge prompt seriously. My ideal first date is … hot yoga. The prompt was partly a joke, written by a friend because I couldn’t figure out what to write. If anything, I figured the prompt would explain the series of yoga pictures scattered across my profile, proving to potential suitors that I wasn’t simply a yoga poser like most Angelenos who view vinyasa as just another workout trend.

I was a “serious yogi,” and to date me would mean respecting my daily practice and being OK with the 3,000 small Ganesha statues tucked into every crevice of my apartment.

Still, I was surprised and slightly amused when Noah asked, in all seriousness, if I would like to go to a yoga class with him and then get dinner afterward. In my effort to go on as many dates as possible as quickly as possible, I said yes, of course. I was a couple of months removed from an eight-year relationship that ended badly. I had convinced myself it would take 100 bad first dates before I found anyone remotely interesting. At least a yoga date for date No. 14 would be slightly more exciting than recounting life stories over drinks at the local bar.

In the texting convo that followed planning our date, Noah and I exchanged music tastes. He is a raver and loves EDM, and I am a Swiftie who also, as it turned out, loves EDM. We learned we attended Chapman University at the same time. We both worked on the Fox lot during the same years. And we share an appreciation for tofu, which he called a “gift from the heavens,” making my vegan heart skip a beat.

Noah and I met at a popular hot yoga studio in Hollywood for our one-hour Bikram-vinyasa fusion date. There was something familiar about him that I initially attributed to having crossed paths in college at some point. In the moments before class, we unloaded our gym bags and shoes into separate lockers outside of the yoga room while exchanging hellos that I expected to be awkward but somehow felt easy and unforced. My interest piqued.

In the yoga room, we set up our mats in the second row. As the class started and the instructor dimmed the lights to an orange glow, it hit me that hot yoga might be a horrible first date idea. We were two strangers, our yoga mats a little too close together, already sweating profusely as the yoga teacher instructed us into sun salutations. I couldn’t decide whether to focus on the class, the poses and keeping my breath slow or if I should try to continuously look cute since this was a date. I kept accidentally catching Noah’s eye in the mirror, and through facial expressions, tried to communicate that I was having fun and in no way subtly judging his yoga practice.

At some point during class, Noah slipped his shirt off and, even through my sweat-filled gaze, I caught a glimpse of his six-pack in the mirror. He met my eyes right as I started to blush, and I looked away fast, embarrassed at having been caught staring. The room suddenly felt hotter and more humid than before. I struggled to steady my breath. Yes, this was definitely a horrible yet interesting first date idea.

The teacher cued us onto our bellies for a backbend sequence. My eyes met Noah’s in the mirror again. This time I turned to look at him, and he smiled a surprisingly familiar smile that meant, “I know this is weird, but I’m having fun too.”

“That was a nice class,” Noah said once our hour was up and we were back in the air-conditioned studio lobby. “It’s one way to see your date sweaty and half-naked.”

I laughed in agreement as we parted ways to shower and change for dinner.

We met again at Cafe Gratitude on Larchmont Boulevard and ordered dishes called “I Am Grateful” and “I Am Remarkable” while recounting the class from our perspectives. He told me about his interest in yoga, how he only recently began practicing as a way to help with mobility. I told him yoga keeps me grounded. I showed off the book I kept in my purse, a story about living Jewishly in modern times, which led to a discussion of how we both grew up Jewish on opposite sides of the country. I liked how neither of us ordered a drink with dinner, choosing water over alcohol as the conversation remained interesting and focused. I liked how he was nice to the server and that his eye contact put me at ease. I liked how after paying the check, he walked me to my car and asked if he could kiss me.

I nodded, and he closed the distance between us. We kissed, and with it came a memory: Freshman year of college, orientation week or shortly afterward, I was at a football party with the girl who would soon be my sorority big. I was drunk and chatty and looking to make friends. I started talking to a freshman boy, and that conversation soon turned to making out, the way most drunken college flirting did back then.

My eyes opened, I pulled away from the kiss. “Have we done this before?” I asked.

Noah blushed then nodded softly.

“Freshman year, I think,” he said, “at a party.”

“A football party?”

“Yes!” He laughed, and I did too.

We kissed again. It was the type of kiss you don’t forget. The type that makes sense.

“Well, we have to do this again,” he concluded.

We said good night. He texted me a song to listen to. I played it in the car on repeat until I arrived home.

Until Noah, I thought an invisible string was only the name of a Taylor Swift song. Now, I know better.

The author is a community builder, writer and yoga teacher. She lives in Echo Park. She’s on Instagram: @allegramarcelle.

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