Yoga-Bitch

I wake up late and speed to yoga where I am confronted with a locked door. I knock and B. answers. One other person is there. A small class - again. I am not in the mood for so much attention. In fact, the theme for me today is "I'm annoyed - so don't piss me off!" B, however, has chosen a different theme for the 90 minute class.

"Fall always makes me nostalgic. I miss going back to school." his voice is too bright. I am sitting in the sun. This is all too cheerful. "Fall is a time of longing, of yearning. Today we will honor our longing for what we desire. Our yearning for connection. If you're not feeling a longing, cultivate one. Long for the connection."

I'm not having it. My body is stiff and I am throwing energy off in sharp sparks, even though my eyes are closed. I'm pretty sure I'm not breathing yoga-like, you know, in through your eyebrows and out through your ass. This is all so annoying.

Throughout every pose, every move we make, it's "Jodi, open your hands. Jodi, internally rotate. Jodi, turn your glance upwards, gaze longingly towards the divine." I glare in his direction instead. You have no idea who you're messing with, buddy. I know a thing or two about longing.

It is October, which is my month of mourning. I yearn for my family. I long for my mother, who died 23 years ago last week. I yearn for croissants. I miss Halloween candy. Oh, yeah, and I haven't kissed a man in a really long time. So hey, yoga-boy, don't even think that YOU have anything to teach ME about the art of longing and denial and crap like that. And this putting your hands on me to anchor my upper thighs to the ground - I know that's legitimate, but if I can feel both your hands on my groin then what is that I feel pressing the small of my back when you lean over me?

The last thing I want to concentrate on for 90 minutes is all the longing I carry that threatens to possess me. And if you're smart - you'll realize that I haven't looked at you. In fact, I've been focusing on the wall above your head through the entire class - which isn't too difficult because you're short. Also, might I add that I am prejudiced against people who tuck their t-shirts into the elastic waist of their shorts. I just can't look at that.

"Are you alright?" he asks with that look of angelic, centered and earthy compassion.

I'm slumped against the window writing him a check.

"Ugh, I'm sorry. My body and I, well, we're sort of arguing right now. We don't like each other very much lately." This is true. I'm back on high dose meds - side-effects include aggression, but I haven't seen any evidence of THAT, yet.

"You don't need to apologize, I was just checking in." ANNOYING - don't be flippant! Why ask me to bare all and be vulnerable if you're just going to be flippant? Ugh! I might have to hate you.

"By the way," he continues to speak. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like someone - I can't remember her name... she's young and a pretty famous actress. She was in that movie "The Wedding Singer."

"Drew Barrymore." I say, "Yeah, I get that a lot. We're the same age and we really looked alike when she was in E.T."

I look up at him and he's smiling all shiny and sparkly-eyed and radiating light. "That's really awesome!" I have no idea why that's awesome, but he seems to really mean it - he's so VERY ENTHUSIASTIC about it. "Hmm." he cocks his head to the side. "I wish I had a camera because, with the sun silhouetting you, you seem to have an aura." I ask him if my aura is orange. He looks at me as if taken aback and then quietly breathes, "Yes."

Damn it, that's charming.