Anyone who does not believe in evolution has never seen yours truly in yoga class. Seriously. If they had ever shared that experience with me, there would be no doubt about my direct lineage, for there it all is in living color. Long torso, gently sway-backed, short legs, feet turned slightly out, antennas up just in case a banana appears out of nowhere. Trust me on this, for there is no question about it. Last week, I stumbled upon a studio in Florida with a sign on the door that simply said “Hot Yoga.” To me this means one of two things. Either the participants look really sexy fabulous while practicing this discipline or each class is a personal ring of hell inspired by Dante himself. In my humble, yet peaceful and serene opinion, it is a little of both. The word “hot” is to be taken literally in this sense for when you open the door to the classroom, a wave of heat that hovers around 105 degrees hits you in the face. You are to arrive early so as to set up your equipment and get into the mental zone of the space. Also, you will start sweating immediately. I decided to take a stab at it. I am no stranger to yoga so there was no fear in my soul. I arrived 15 minutes early to be greeted in the outer lobby by my instructor, Matt. Matt? Really? Is it me, or is this an ironic name for a yoga teacher? Isn’t this a little like taking a cooking class from a woman named Whisk? Anyway, Matt was classic yogi material. He was wearing long shorts and no shirt (after all the body is sacred so what’s the problem?). His hair was pulled back in a pony tail and he was bare footed. There was something genuinely comforting about his presence. Like being in the presence of a really fit Buddah, or Morgan Freeman as God or, well….you get the idea. ….Anyway, everyone in the room was younger and skinnier than me. That is fine except that I am a size 4. A generous size four, yes, but still. You get the picture. Some of these young mantises were already in serene, restful poses gazing ahead trance like as cold people entered the room sending waves of winter towards them. My first question is “Why aren’t these young women at work? Do these people not have jobs? What do they have to be stressed about? They are too teeny to have birthed babies at this point. Goodness, they are barely in puberty.” Whatever. Think ooohhhhhhhmmmm. Oohhhhhhhhmmmmm. Hot. Lie down in a state of shivernotsomuch. Don’t laugh or giggle or even hint at a chuckle about Matt’s name. If I do he may gently exile me to tree pose with my nose in the corner in a perpetual state of shallnoheehaha. Ohhhhhhmmmmmm. Actually, there was no chanting which was good because mine would have turned to snickering, not from disrespect of the practice, but out of hilarity at my own attempts at the positions. The class lasted 90 minutes and for the most part it was not too humiliating. The poses were not completely unfamiliar and Matt was helpful and even cracked a small yoga joke (yes there is one out there). I could tell he was pleased that one person in the class recognized it as a joke. Me. He complimented me and encouraged me the way that one praises a baby for opening its eyes. My sweat purged my muscles and my monkey mind. Ohhhhhhhhm. The images of peace and and quiet calmed my thoughts of cheeseburgers and twofer sales at the mall down the street. I will definitely return if they will have me. You should consider it too. It will be good for your leggies and your spirit and the economy. And I thank you for visiting this blog today. Thank you for sharing my thoughts and filling both of our energies with bright light. I hope you will visit again sometime, for now I am sure you must depart. So go. As for me……(get ready), I think (hold on) I will not go. I will not leave this place. Nah…I’m a stay.