I squint in the dark, hands groping for Phillip Lim’s.
can’t find them - how? they’re huge - so I make a grab for the mug of hot lemon water. Don’t need perfect eyesight to drink.
I squint again. It’s sour, a good kinda sour. My eyes adjust (as do my taste buds.)
One hour later I’m in d o w n w a r d dog,
chaturanga – h o l d – cobra.
(jump!) hands under my feet
roll up — not slow enough because I’m impatient, hands to heart –
No incense sticks, no chanting yogi, just me, myself and my beating heart. Love your body love your body love your body, it whispers. om namah shivaya. I bow to Shiva, I bow to my inner heart, in silence, in sweat, in Lycra, alone
… until Tracy Anderson fills the room. I vowed to make her and yoga my religion again. In abs we trust. (pulse for three, two, one… r e l e a s e .)
. . .