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Monday, Mar. 25, 2002
Maybe it's just me, but I think there's been a fire sale on yoga lessons of late.

Yoga, the exercise thing, the class where you go and somebody named Li sits in front of the group and…what? What does Li do? Suffice to say that I don't know because I've never been.

But everybody is taking yoga. That much I'm sure of. Everybody but me. And it's not that I probably shouldn't consider it, but that half of my brain, which ought to be preoccupied with weight loss and spiritual consciousness and the stretching of underused muscle groups, simply rebels at the thought.

It's the word association thing. When I hear yoga, I automatically think either of Yogurt (gack) or Yogi. As in Bear. And I get all Hanna-Barbara on myself and that's generally the time to shift the thought process to something more productive, like wondering why the lawn didn't manage to cut itself a bit shorter over the weekend now that spring is pushing up new shoots every hour.

But I did a little physical checkup on myself. You know, just to see what was functioning well and what was not. What could stand improving and what was just fine if left to its' own devices.

Protrubences. Yes, I have the belly of one who eats and drinks and does few deep knee bends. But really, that's about it. I am the dream of a Liposuction physician. For with but a stroke or two of the scalpel and some judicious vacuuming, I would be once again the sleek 150 pound greyhound who could spend all day on the basketball court or softball field. The physician would reap large rewards for his labor, prominently place my new / old physique on his 4 color brochure like some Charles Atlas before and after shot and be heralded immediately among his peers as the wunderkind of his profession.

Yeah, I could make him look spectacular.

Having a belly is akin to donning a gas tank sans spout and hanging it off the bow of a two-legged schooner. You carry it around with you, it makes a convenient shelf for late night snack plates, an agreeable and pokeable pillow for friends to prod. It is fed and nurtured with care (owing to regular maintenance trips to the Watering Hole). Various rebuttals need to be on hand for the inevitable, the giggle, the poke, the "How's the pregnancy treating you these days?" inquiries which I field on a monthly basis.

Usually, I just smile secretively, give the stomach a reassuring pat, and say something like "Barley products have been very, very good to me."

So welcome to the world of Outfoxed Yoga, in which you sit with legs outstretched and feet propped on a subwoofer under the desk, with arms bent at a 45 degree angle, elbows on armrests of the chair, fingers rippling over a plastic keyboard, head lolling left to right. You clear your mind of all distractions save images of a cartoon bear and picnic baskets, insert a Widespread Panic CD and just let 'er rip.

Works like a charm.

Except that it gives me an intense craving for Indian food.

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