Yogaed on the Upper West Side

It was later in the day, and we were venturing down to a yoga class. Well, why not? I don’t do well with New Age spirituality, with all that energy and white light stuff, but I’m here, it’s the West Side, and certainly yoga is part of the culture.

We arrive to a steel, glass and wood interior, and head for the stairs. The sign says "Yoga Pure, one chakra down."

I brace myself.

"Awesome," says the girl, when I give her my pass.

"Awesome," she repeats, when I tell her it's my first time at the center.

And everything is cool, mellow, relaxing as we leave the dressing room and sit on a couch.

“It’s sort of like the baths,” I say to Johnny, “just that no one—apparently—is having sex….”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Whaddya mean ‘yeah,’” I say. “You ever been to the baths?”

“Naw, just heard about ‘em….”

Well, that’s a relief. Though I suppose if I can cope with my mother being an ex-lesbian, I can deal with Johnny swinging both ways.

Right, and then this guy with muscles he wears easily comes by, and Johnny hails him. And introduces me.

“When was the last time you did yoga?”

He’s the yoga teacher. Oh, and forget what I said up there about the white light. I now believe. Rather, I’m experiencing. Because this guy is not radiating but swimming in the stuff, and I am too.

“1972,” I tell him.

“Oh, the year I was born,” he says.

“Thank you for that information….”

Well, he’s a sweetheart, and why not? He’s from some town outside of Milwaukee.

“You’ll do great,” he tells me.

Unfortunately, he’s referring to the class….

Well, in addition to yoga he must have learned neuro-linguistic programming, because everything is positive, everything is subliminal messaging, everything I do is great.

“If you happen to be new in the class, feel free to take breaks, modify the positions, listen to your body, or just observe….”

OK—got that message!

Well, here’s where the serious contortioning begins.

We are on the ball of the right foot with the left foot at knee height and with our body turned to the right and our head turned to the left. Oh, and our arms are stretched above our head.

Jeanne, of course, is a former dancer. She’s doing all this and stifling a yawn.

I’m not really teetering, I’m pre-toppling. So I do what any sane guy would do. Grab the column next to me.

I do this because I’ve been given the freedom to do so. Three minutes previously (that’s six centuries ago experientially) a woman had done the same, and White Light had approved her for it.

“Great use of the wall, Marc!” WL calls out.

And he’s completely sincere!

Well, the instructions are coming with machine gun frequency, and now I’m down on my left knee, with my right leg sticking out and my right arm flung up and left, twisting my torso to the left as my head is pulled backwards. White Light appears and gently pushes my abdomen down. His hands are warm, kind.

“LOWER!” I’m shouting.

Internally. Externally, I’m sweating as badly as I do in San Juan on the trot. I look to the clock, as the faithful look to the altar.

10 minutes down, 50 to go!

It’s clear—I’m in terrible shape. Oh, and the plan to hide in the back of the class?

Forget it. White Light has us turning around and around. I might as well be on a pedestal.

“Great, Marc,” shouts my love, my executioner. I’ve stumbled back into the class, after taking a five-minute break.

'It's gotta be genetic,' I'm thinking. 'It's not that I'm discovering muscles I haven't used--I actually don't have these muscles. And a sorry time to find out....'

We're now doing down-dog / up-dog--and my back is crackling like bacon in a skillet.

It’s sort of the Stockholm Syndrome reversed, I think at one point. Instead of falling in love after weeks of torture or confinement, I fell in love before the torture began….

And perhaps it’s just as well that I came to the class tougher in spirit than in body. I grit my teeth. I remind myself—I’ve endured worse. All bad things come to an end.

It does. I’m drenched in sweat. My mat as well. I go to thank the light.

Really, just to touch him again….

“You did great, Marc!” he says.

I stumble away, only later to think…

…wonder if he’d review Iguanas!