HOT Yoga

“This is not a democracy! I control the door, I control the heat and I control the room! I am in control.”

If we didn’t hate her already, we now scanned the room for sharp instruments to puncture her. She had zero body fat so it would have proved futile anyway. Our miniature teacher blasted us for taking too long to establish our next yoga posture. We were three quarters the way through the 90 minute class and visibly perishing in the 104 degree heat.

“You’re not leaving, Gabriel.”

“Prison.” I muttered under my breath. Gabriel had made an attempt to leave the building, but our fascist instructor was not amused. “We don’t run things like that here.” Gabriel cowardly shuffled back to his mat and collapsed in a heap. I glanced over at him as he stared with zoned-out disbelief.

The toothpick tyrant barked contradictory instructions at us in locust pose: “I prefer you lift your leg only one inch if you can’t align your hips. Get ready and … LIFT! Point your toes. Lift your legs higher! Forty-five degrees is the minimum. Lift. Higher! High-yer!”Didn’t she say one inch? I strained my leg to the ceiling while salty sweat stung my eyes.

“Open your eyes, Lucie!”

I should have made my name up at the beginning of class. Next time I’ll be Wanda.

I always fancied myself a Wanda. When I had my clothing shop I would sometimes reply to e-mails as Wanda, giving some discrepancy between myself and the business. Is that weird? Public exposure has definitely made that seem a little weird …

By some form of miracle, I find myself in the shower, pretending to cough after letting out a suspiciously orgasmic sound in reaction the cool water, nothing has ever felt so good. Exiting, I try to find my bag amongst a sea of vaginas. They’re everywhere, covering the entire changing room like ants on candy, appearing as if by magic, from all corners of the room.

The diverse display of female flesh is a frightening confirmation that the unbelievable bodies displayed inside the pages of Purple Fashion, actually exist. Thankfully, it’s also a reminder that there are more varieties of women’s bodies than poems by Emily Dickinson. The only access I have to nearly-naked woman on a regular basis are flawless fashion models and actresses pasted on the walls of New York subway stations, it’s no wonder I find myself surprised when Natalia Vodianova doesn’t show up in the mirror.

Having bought a thirty-day deal on Living Social, I leave my forth session of Bikrim Yoga on a high. Skin glowing, hair shinier and I’m inspired to have wild sockeye salmon and blueberries for supper. Pint-sized Yoga Dictator aside, things could be a lot worse.