The space could have been a conference room on the Starship Enterprise, with its circular ceiling, giant central column and groovy recessed lighting. Each spot already had a mat, which made me pause a moment, thinking the class was full until I realized these had been pre-set: Each brown sticky mat was accompanied by a cork block and a rolled, pristine ivory towel. Like turn-down service for yoga.

The class was Vinyasa--with, coincidentally, the same teacher Gabriella the Sun reporter had (I didn't read her story till after). Marco, a tattooed, bandana'd man with a lilting accent--and admiring students--led us through the usual poses and sun salutes with a charming manner and absolutely too heavy adjustments. One of which nearly popped my shoulder. But there was mellow Krishna Das-esque music, intense focus, and laughter when he told us that Iyengar said garudasana (eagle pose) cures cellulite.

After a while I forgot about the fanciness and focused on my tight hips, my scritchy shoulder blades, and the pulse of my breath making its way through me.

Which reminded me that though all this pricey stone and expert lighting is soothing, it's really like life--no matter how classy the surroundings, it's still just you, alone, with your breath, your mind, and your sweat.

Afterward, I almost tripped into the brightly lit boutique, well-stocked with Lululemon and Sigg, next to an understatedly swank tea/water bar.

I'd definitely go back for the pampered feeling pre- and post-yoga and as a way to sample an array of styles under one roof. But I don't think smaller studios have much to fear from Pure (the gods are laughing); it's a very specific kind of designer yoga experience. But I do wonder if it marks the beginning of the end of the mad yoga rush we've seen in recent years. It's such a complete expression of yoga at its haute-est, that it feels untoppable, yet a bit much. You know?

Have you been to the new NYC Pure? Do you love? Hate? Meh?