Yoga has been unusually crowded lately. The studio, the parking lot, the locker room, everything.
Normally, the crowding kicks in just when you expect it: the day after New Year’s, when those new to the class show up, resolved to be either more or less of something.
Perhaps this time it’s the autumn weather and the thought of all the mashed potatoes and gravy coming our way, all those bulky sweaters that will not, despite our fondest wishes, camouflage the bulk underneath. Nothing like pulling out last year’s cold-weather clothing to bring to the fore those extra corn dogs at the fair, the graduation-party beers.
But back to the yoga studio.
Have you been to one? You should, if only for the opportunity to pick out a new pair of shoes. I keed! I keed! But no, really, you have to take off your shoes when you enter; and what’s to say you won’t accidentally leave behind those old worn-out things you’ve been saying you need to replace and go home with a new pair of strappy little heels?
That would be wrong, by the way. You know this, I know this, but still, did you see those little shoes in the corner?
Of course, I came for the shoe shopping but I stayed for the opportunity to change my clothes in a locker room.
It’s amazing how infrequently you are naked in front of people once you graduate from high school.
That sounds far more interesting than it should. Let me rephrase.
It’s amazing how infrequently you find yourself changing from one set of clothes into another when you no longer have to take Phy Ed.
It’s all still there, though. The self-conscious women employing contortionist moves so as to change into their yoga gear without actually taking off their street clothes. The un-self-conscious women blow-drying their hair, putting on make-up, talking on the phone, applying for credit cards while nude. The thoughtless women who take up precious toilet stall space to change their clothes while others wait in line to use the facilities. The tall and surprisingly dimpled woman who leaned over me for her locker and laid a large sweaty breast on my head…
I’m short, okay! I know it, you know it, everyone knows it! There’s no call to lay your soft wet body parts on my head! Ack!
There are those of you who may think, what's a little boob hat? You're in a yoga studio for cryin' out loud! Surely you can relax a little?
The instrument that could measure my breast-to-head comfort levels amongst strangers has not yet been invented.
And stop calling me Shirley.
Whew! I feel so much better having gotten that off my, uh, chest.
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