Sunday, November 06, 2011


I did a couple of fitness classes the other day at my new gym. This was after the gym had sent me an email calling me a lazy bastard for not coming in more often. This turns out to be an effective service.

After hobbling out of the first class, I saw another class, Yoga, beginning, and thinking that sounded relaxing, I wandered in.

I didn't notice that somehow my iPhone had been turned on and started playing my current playlist, a Couperin suite for solo harpsichord. I was pretty out of it, so I somehow missed that there was harpsichord music coming out of my pants. I did hear the music as I entered the class, got a mat and started stretching. And it was harpsichord music I heard--very pleasing, and very calming, but still, I thought, an odd choice for a Yoga class. I expected new agey, or a few ragas or some such. Still I wasn't complaining.

So I went through the stretches for ten to fifteen minutes, never realizing Baroque era tunes were coming out of my rear, said rear now being thrust in the air in a pathetic reach for downward facing dog, said dog deserving to be shot and put out of its misery. Eventually the Yogi came up and told me to turn off my crotch-radio, at which point I realized I'd been broadcasting for a quarter of an hour. What really amazed me is nobody had hissed at me or shot a quizzical look--as if this was something people normally do, go around with a cembalist being pumped from your loins. So I turned off the iPhone, and realized, yes, there was new agey music playing in the background all along.

This being my first Yoga class in ten years or so, today, two days after, my legs form, at full stretch, a 120 degree angle with my torso. I woke up with my legs and arms pointing in the air like a tipped cow.

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