I’m letting the gentle melody of
the Braveheart soundtrack Pandora station rock my metaphysical senses in gentle
meditation as I lie on a mat of foam that reeks of the lemon ginger scent of
Trader Joe’s organic cleaning spray. Let the stress of the day roll off of your
shoulders like the ocean breeze in the evening after a sweltering day. Breathe
in, breathe out. I listen to the flamboyant voice of my gay male yoga
instructor, muffled by the presence of bright blue braces on his teeth that
reflect the glow of the candle-lit room every time he smiles. And by candles, I mean the battery powered
pieces of translucent plastic with tiny light bulbs in them. It’s a realm of
organic peace that I’m lying in right now. Seriously.
Clear
my mind. That’s what you’re supposed to do in yoga. But all I can focus on is
how my muscles are shaking like an epileptic in an earthquake while I’m splayed
out like Patrick Star balancing my bodyweight on my wrist with my other arm
reaching up to the ceiling. Nothing like the humility of yoga.
I also didn’t get the yoga pants
memo. I didn’t realize people actually wear them for yoga. My white legs in my
running shorts are positively blinding.
Breathe in, breathe out. Release
the stress. Become one with yourself. Don’t fart. God, don’t fart. Someone
farts. I’m probably more embarrassed for him than he is for himself. Try to rub
the foamy mat to reproduce farting noise so that he can reassure his fellow
yoga peers that the wet rumble emitted from his hind area was really his sweaty
palm wiping the rubber mat. All of us try to believe it.
“Let’s all breathe out an ‘om,’” my
instructor beckons. We all sit in a circle with our shoulders back. I peek
through my closed eyelids and see everyone with their legs crossed like Buddha.
I try to look like I’m comfortable in that position. Then I hear the beginning
of a gentle cadence of bass tones exuding from the mouths of the people around
me like monks in a monastery as they harmonize their “Oms”, and these people
are really getting into it, like they’re breathing out a demon or something,
and you can smell the putrid air of “Om,” and I fight my church giggles because
I’m sorry, it just amuses me.
I haven’t been back to yoga. Not my
thing.
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