GETTING DRUNK AND WORKING OUT is one thing—but a true fitness enthusiast knows that alcohol can seriously take the edge off your athletic prowess, whereas marijuana, in the right context, can increase your enjoyment and capabilities. If you're an experienced runner, you might find that a couple puffs before you set out enhances the meditative quality of your run. (Do not attempt this if you are not a regular runner, as you will feel every inch of your out-of-shape body's pain and resistance in unprecedented, exquisite detail.) However, the ultimate way to make your weed work for your waistline (because not everyone who smokes pot is a fat do-nothing) is—and I feel like this is obvious—yoga.
Yet, as anyone who's ever taken yoga can attest, no studio, or even teacher, is alike. Most blend different practices, some are mellow, some are tough, some are chant-y, or woo-woo, etc. Ultimately the trick is to find a specific instructor who suits your stoniness—but this guide will help point you in the right direction.
Hatha/Vinyasa: If you've ever taken an introductory yoga class, chances are it was some combination of hatha and vinyasa practices. They are the garden varieties of yoga, and a relatively accessible, safe way to test the waters of yogic stonage. Yoga encourages you to focus on the heightened tactile, body-aware sensations a stoning can give you, which is perfect for detecting small details in your physical alignment, monitoring your threshold for stretching, and it is generally done in positive, healthy environments in which you are unlikely to bug out. However, if you tend to get fidgety about concentrating on physiology (I recall a period during which wrists were particularly troublesome) after toking up, tread cautiously. Another downside is that being stoned really wrecks your balance, so try to steer clear of teachers who are heavy handed with the tree poses.
Bikram: Never, ever go to your first Bikram class stoned. You've probably heard of this practice, in which the room is heated to sweltering—good for your skin as well as your flexibility. It is not unheard of, though, for people to pass out or puke when they attempt Bikram, so try it a few times to see how comfortable you are. I cannot think of anything grosser than a blend of vomit and foot-y yoga-mat scents. If you feel capable, try it, but be extra-cautious if you're prone to claustrophobia, as the heat can literally be suffocating. And for chrissakes, do not run out of water. The cottonmouth alone will probably kill you. On the plus side, by the end of class you will be more bendable than Gumby, the coolness of which is best appreciated with a little giggle bush.
Prenatal: Okay, I'm not going to judge pregnant women who smoke weed. We all have our theories. But I went to a prenatal yoga class stoned and happily un-impregnated, which involved bullshitting a yoga teacher—for which there is now no doubt a special place for me in karmic hell. Fact: Prenatal yoga, while on the mild side of exertion for obvious reasons, is capable of mystical feats like rearranging the contents of your uterus like it was the living room furniture. If you skip the part where you have to sit around in a circle and talk about due dates and trimesters and hips, hips, hips, as well as a tendency toward load-dropping poses like a wide-legged deep crouch, you can basically expect a low-impact class with the word "baby" standing in for "belly." The psychological torture of doing so when not actually pregnant, however, during which you will experience paranoia like never before, is obviously not recommended.
Kundalini: I saved the best for last. Of all the styles of yoga I've tried, Kundalini has probably provided the most varied experiences. It's very breath-oriented, and some instructors focus intently on that aspect, resulting in a low-impact, restorative class that will make you feel cleansed and refreshed afterward, a good place to be when you're shaking off your high. But I like my Kundalini instructors higher up on the woo-woo chart. My favorite Kundalini classes are more aerobic, gradually building movement until the entire class is flailing around at random, jumping and flapping arms like idiots, completely into it, not cracking up or feeling embarrassed. At this point a good Kundalini instructor will know it's time to crank the music up loud. And as you flap recklessly around the room with a bunch of other organically fed nutbags, on drugs, as "HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE" blares around you, you will feel just like a Charles Manson disciple—without all the unhealthy, murdery stuff.