Tales from the Yoga Studio

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Book: Tales from the Yoga Studio by Rain Mitchell Read Free Book Online
Authors: Rain Mitchell
that into the car makes her feel exhausted. She got such a warm welcome, she was afraid she was going to get sucked into a social scene she’s not sure she’s ready for or interested in. It just seemed simpler not to go.
    â€œI’m not exactly a fanatic yet,” she says.
    â€œDoesn’t matter. You will be. What style?”
    Shit. How’s she supposed to know? “Masala? ” she says, snatching the only Hindi-sounding word that comes into her mind.
    From the look on Becky’s face, she’s trying to decide if Imani is joking or not. There have been rumors for a while now that Becky is a big pothead, but Imani’s never paid attention to them. If she’s stoned right now, there’s at least a chance she’ll forget the comment. Or maybe she just saw through Imani’s exaggeration.
    â€œWell . . .” She waves it off. “The style doesn’t matter. It’s all good. I have no plans for this afternoon. Let’s make a day of it. I have got tons to show you. It’s really a good thing we had that high-protein snack!”

    B ecky takes her to a store in Beverly Hills where she says she does all her shopping these days. It’s packed with customers, and not only women, and has a staff of the most fit and beautiful clerks she’s seen in a while. The really crazy thing is, they’re actually nice. Imani feels like asking if she could have a serving of that Kool-Aid, for sure, and maybe they could distribute it around town?
    â€œWhat do you wear to classes?” Becky asks.
    Imani isn’t about to tell her that the one time she took class, she wore a tank top and a pair of silk boxers that she bought for Glenn but that he refused to wear. She’d heard you were supposed to wear something loose and they were that!
    â€œOh, the usual,” she says.
    Becky purses her lips. “I can tell we’re going to need everything,” she says. “Let’s start off with pants.”
    She holds up a pair of what look to Imani like pedal pushers. “These are amazing, They hug your legs, but don’t bind or anything. They’re great when you’re doing, I don’t know, let’s say ardha chandrasana,” Becky says.
    â€œLet’s you say,” Imani tells her, “because I have no idea what you just said.”
    â€œAnd look.” She holds out the tag. “Not that you need them, but ‘anti-muffin top.’ Is that awesome or what?”
    What Imani notices mostly is that the customers, all these women of assorted ages and shapes, seem so completely confident about themselves when they’re trying on the clothes, even the tight pants and the tank tops. It’s the exact opposite of the way she usually sees women acting in sportswear stores. Almost as if they like their bodies . . .
    The other thing she notices is that while there’s the usual flurry of giggles and double takes upon spotting Becky—and, to a lesser extent, her—there’s a palpable camaraderie in the air. People just talk to them. “Did I see you at that Rodney Yee workshop last month?” “Have you tried the new ashtanga studio that opened in Brentwood?” “You have got to check out this teacher at the Sports Club. He’s a ma zing!”
    One hour and more money than she wants to think about later, they leave the store loaded down with enough equipment to nearly fill the backseat of Imani’s car. Pants, tops, underwear guaranteed not to give her a wedgie. Maybe she went overboard, but she figures if it inspires her to actually get to classes (to show off all the damned stuff) it will be money well spent.
    Becky tells her to follow her, and so they wend their way down Santa Monica Boulevard in tandem. Becky, who never uses her directionals, makes a sharp right that Imani nearly misses, and they end up on a quiet side street. Imani’s been expecting her to take her to some yoga palace out here

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