Yoga-Southern Style

                                                Day Devoted to the Stomach

          Lisa calls the class together. She is a young thing, benign looking with her long brown hair drawn back in a neat scrunch, but in truth, she holds a black belt in karate in addition to being a yoga master. She takes herself quite seriously, and does not suffer fools. "Ladies, please roll out your mats, remove your shoes and take your places. You may want a bolster or two, because today we'll be working on your abdominal muscles."

          Groans echo around the jute-matted room. Sara, who's been a yoga junkie for years, prettily removes her Jesus-sandals to show pink tipped toes, then gracefully lowers herself into a dignified lotus position. In her grass-green yoga tights, she looks like a frog queen sitting on a lily pad.

          “She’s so damn self-righteous,” Candy, my hefty friend, whispers in my ear. “I hope she busts a gut today. That spandex looks like it's glued on.”

          “Ssh! She can hear you!” I haul my mat and bolster to the back of the room to get as far away from Lisa as possible. I know she’ll be all over me for improper postures and having this fat-roll around my middle. Abs indeed! Mine are buried in the sins of six decades.

          Allison comes in late as usual. Lisa frowns and quickly points her to a space up front. If you’re late, she makes you pay for it. Poor Allison will now make a pure spectacle of herself before the whole class.

          Finally, we’re all settled in place. Lisa takes a seat on her mat and nimbly draws her long, lean legs into a perfect lotus. She touches middle fingertips to thumbs, closes her eyes and begins the low OM.

          Every time I start to OM, it catches in my throat and comes out in a strangled croak. I cough and hack, attempting to clear it. After the third hack, I risk glancing at Lisa. She's giving me the evil eye. “Get it together,” she silently mouths. My croak turns into a whimper.

          “Now, come to your hands and knees, and let's do the cat-cow stretch. Bring your back up and your head down…stretch…stretch…and hold.” Lisa's voice is a humming sing-song.

          Turning my head to the right, I see Sara, beatific smile on her face, stretching perfectly into the cat and then down into the cow. She appears to be in a trance and I wonder whether she throws back a couple of Valium before she heads out to Yoga. That’s the only thing that would put a smile like that on my face.

          “Faces straight ahead!” Lisa bellows from the front, and I know she's heading my way. Sure enough, two hands grab my fat roll and pull my back up to the breaking point.

          “Now slide your right foot forward as far as you can, and drop that left hip toward the mat.” She's got to be kidding, right?

          I hear a grunt from Candy as she attempts to walk her right foot up to the front of the mat.  “Uh-oh, I think I’m stuck!” she squeaks. Candy looks like someone frozen while leaping a hurdle. Lisa hurries over and attempts to pull her up, but Candy is at least twice Lisa’s size. There is a nauseating sound of ripping spandex. Candy grabs hold of Lisa, and they both go down. Everybody scrambles to get out of the way except, of course, Sara, who’s stretched into her long legged pose, looking as if the angels are singing in her ears.

          Accompanied by much cursing and snarling, Lisa untangles arms and legs to extricate herself from Candy’s massive embrace. I help Lisa arrange Candy’s feet so she can stand up, her shredded tights now hanging from her crotch.

          “To hell with abs,” Candy roars. She stomps over to Sara and shoves her into a heap on the floor, then throws her mat at Lisa and slams out the door.

          We look at one another, shell-shocked, but Lisa strides to the front and takes her place on the mat.  “Deep breaths into the belly, ladies…”