As the old song goes, I like piña coladas, getting caught in the rain--and am definitely not into yoga.
So what was I doing in a Saturday afternoon Yogaworks class?
“Great place to meet women,” my brother had said.
But most sat meditating, impervious to conversation. Others marched past me, wordlessly determined, holding the studio’s industrial-brown mats above their heads, like worker ants carrying floppy Graham crackers. Sighing, I grabbed the last mat, dragged it to the back, plopped down on it. It smelled like a mortician's unwashed armpit. Mental note: Kill my brother.
The instructor, perky and petite, introduced herself as Tree. Throughout the hour, we exchanged quizzical glances. Our eyes kept landing on each other’s T-shirts; she was probably trying to figure out who Lou Reed was, while I was thinking, Who’s Lulu Lemon?
I found myself trying to impress her, attempting to contort my body into positions achievable only by a circus performer without vertebrae. Sheepishly, I’d raise my hand for Tree’s help. Heroically, she untangled my elbows from my thighs, held my right leg while I hopped on the left, and stifled her laughter when I stumbled to the floor. Fortunately, the walls were mirrored, to magnify my humiliation; I saw multiple Trees trying to catch multiple me’s as they all fell splat on multiple mats.
“I never realized being healthy was this dangerous,” I joked to her.
“Take off your sunglasses,” she whispered.
I literally reached bottom attempting the “happy baby” pose, which consisted of lying on my back, clutching the insides of my knees, and forcing my butt into my face. I flashed back to Fifty Shades of Grey, not because of the sexiness of the pose (it wasn’t), but because of the myriad discolorations of my once-white underwear rising in rebellion from my sagging sweatpants. Is everyone staring at my boxers? Mental note: Kill Tree.
The final routine was something called Shavasana, Sanskrit for “Lie down, fall asleep, and snore.” So I did.
Tree’s voice yanked me into consciousness: “The light in me sees the light in you,” English for “I saw your underwear.” Then she said, “Namaste.”
What?
“Namaste!” said everyone.
Still didn’t catch it.
“Uh . . . Amen,” I said.
After class, I managed to find a bar down the street; Buddha must’ve given me karma points. Stepping into O’Malley’s, I glimpsed a woman in the corner. I froze.
She was the one.
Her ponytail frayed; her shoulders slumped. She looked like an exhausted kindergarten teacher. Still, she was gorgeous. Inhaling, I approached, tapped her shoulder.
Tree turned.
We looked at each other. We broke into laughter, the kind that shatters all tension and embarrassment.
I ordered us two piña coladas. | 
