Free A New Lu by Laura Castoro Page B

ear suggests. “We don’t even have to turn around. Just slow down, let these people flow around us. Then, when we’re at the back of the line, we’ll turn and make a break for it!”
    â€œYou said you’d be my ally in this.”
    â€œI thought you meant something reasonable. I took yoga for one whole summer in Bombay.” She rolls her eyes. “It messes with your moral compass.”
    I turn resolutely away from my tempter. “I am here to learn, to relax, to find inner pe—”
    Andrea shoves me from behind so hard that I involuntarily step on the heel of the person in front of me. He turns, frowning. He’s tall and tanned, with streaked blond cornrowed hair. His T-shirt reads Saint Barnabas Medical Trauma Unit.
    â€œSorry,” I say.
    â€œYou okay?” he asks.
    â€œOh, she’s fine. Hi.” Andrea says. “You come here often?” That’s when I realize that I was her excuse to speak to him.
    â€œNo, first time.” He nods at the young woman standing in front of him. “Deb says it’s good for tension. Thought I’d try.” He shrugs manly shoulders. But what registers with me most is that he seems young enough to be my son. I can’t help it. I see possibilities of my child-who-probably-won’t-be everywhere. The suspense of the inevitable collapse of that possibility is killing me.
    â€œLet’s compare notes afterward.” Andrea is a woman with no fear of rejection. Why should she?
    He nods. “Cool.”
    The breathing part seems easy enough.
    I start to lose consciousness before I realize that while all this fresh air might be good for the body, the brain takes a nap when thoroughly fumigated with oxygen. Lulled by vaguely Indian-sounding chimes and gongs played at low volume for atmosphere, my “Tree of Life” pretty soon looks like a sapling caught in a stiff breeze. I weave, sway, my head bobbing back and forth between my arms like a Hindu dancer’s. Finally, it’s landing gear down before I topple.
    Our instructor has already told us that there is no such thing as perfection in yoga. We are to do what we can. That to strive is to lose the purpose. Every effort is its own reward. Hmm. Yoga is not a competition or an exertion in achievement, but a ritual attempt to effect peace, each in our own way. Yeah. Right.
    My “Rising Cat” and “Descending Dog” poses remind me of how long it’s been since the illustrations in the “Karma Sutra” looked like a fun time.
    Midway through the class, I leave the “Warrior” pose for one that has me with my legs so wide open that, when I bend forward and down, the top of my head nearly touches the floor. This is my singular moment of vile western-influenced sense of achievement. Who knew such things were still possible?
    As we are gazing inward, each through our own “Arch of Life”—my description—I begin to hear the labored breath of a fellow straddler. I try to orient myself, upside down. The source of great distress comes from over my left shoulder, upside down. If I were upright, it would be facing forward to my left. That’s where Andrea placed her mat. Deep, sudden intakes of air increase in volume, like someone is going under water repeatedly. No one else says a thing. I hear desperation in that heaving. I can’t stand it. I think, Andrea’s having a heart attack!
    I arch up and put a palm flat on the floor to steady myself as I seek her out.
    But Andrea is not the gasper. She’s gazing at me through her spread legs with a big fat grin on her face. Okay, my need to mother is satisfied. Some other neophyte yoga student is on her own.
    By the end of the hour, I’m so tired I don’t uncoil with the rest of the class. I sit slumped for a full minute while mats are rolled and eager acolytes gather around our instructor to question the specifics of a pose. Finally I lift my head,