Hot

It’s dry here in the Pacific Northwest.  Humid days are freaky, and even then, I don’t sweat much.  But last night, in a dark, narrow room, I sweated as though I were back in the tropics.  My god I sweated.  And the dreadlocked string bean balletic man leading our hot yoga class touched us lightly, exclaimed, “Totally!  Beauties!”  And any number of other surfer boy zen speak and it was lovely.  Every stretching, breathing, striving moment was beautiful.  I could feel my legs.  Not the pain in them, but my legs.  The long fact of them.

I could feel his hand on the nape of my neck, and the woman straining beside me.  I could feel the shift as we changed positions.  The heat from the lamps above us.  The brown walls, and the wooden floor.  “Palm the world,” he told us.  And I did; I grabbed hold.

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