There are many things I am not good at doing. Yoga is one of those many things. But my lower back hurts like I’m an 80-year-old woman and my hamstrings are tight enough to strum and my fingers only reach my toes with considerable coaxing, so I’m adding yoga back into the exercise rotation. As is my style, odds are I will be gung-ho for about four months and then I’ll go on another four-month hiatus. I am now three weeks into the current gung-ho-around. This new-found motivation was prompted by a 30 days for $30 deal at my favourite yoga studio. I am a sucker for a sale.
My Saturday morning instructor likes to moan, in an alarmingly sexual sort of way, as she enters each pose. Not an ohm. A moan of pleasure. During every pose. For the uninitiated, there are a lot of poses in a 75 minute class. I didn’t think anything could top the “honey pot of love” yoga experience in the summer of 2009. I was wrong. Not oh-m. Oh-my.
Title: Chicago – 26 or 6 to 4. 1970.