I’m a head-sweater.
That’s head-sweater, not head sweater.
There’s a difference, you know. Talk to any head-sweater, they’ll tell you: one causes sweat to pour from your hairline, obstructing your vision.
The other just obstructs your vision.
I reflect upon this, of course, mid-way through a yoga class.
“Connect with your breath,” says the instructor. “If you find that you’ve lost sight of your breath, return to it, and return to your intention.”
I inhale raggedly and return to my intention, which involves envisioning my muse, a miniscule, fat-headed being that flies about, temple-high, spinning in tiny, ecstatic circles.
“Wheeeeee!” he says.
I mop the sweat from my eyes and smile.
“There you go,
the yogi says. “Movin’ to expert-level
yoga pose, huh?”
I don’t look at him. The sweat pours down my face, pools at my collar bones. I continue to smile.
I come to yoga to shut up, to turn my mind off, to do exactly what I’m told. For an hour there’s nothing but the incredible heat, the yogi’s voice and my need to do nothing but listen to it, to let go of everything that has gone on before it.
The muse spins rapturously.