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Tuesday 200 — #70

He snuck into his first yoga class feeling like a koi out of the fish pond. Not really knowing what to do, he unrolled his mat and tried to imitate the roomful of stretching practitioners (he tried to think of a better word for them, but reckoned they wouldn’t appreciate ‘yogurts’). He opted to mimic those lying on their backs. Nobody likes a toe-touching show off.

He was assured this was non-competitive. Pay no attention to what the others were doing. Just remember to breathe, be aware of his limits, and maybe try to push a little further than he thought he could go — as long as there wasn’t undue pain.

He once had a girlfriend who told him the same thing, just weeks before she moved to East Berlin and became a dominatrix.

The instructor began by leading the class in a chant. A chant? This was supposed to be stretching and breathing, not choir practice. Barely whispering his first ‘ohm’, he was struck by the group’s chord. Resonance repressed his reason, and he was soon in touch with his inner Gregorian monk, settling into a pre-pretzel posture of polyphonic peace.

And then the torture began.

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