Spencer and I do yoga about twice a week at a pretty chill studio in a hip neighborhood a few kilometers away from our place. By hip I mean you see white people. Nobody has beards (unless they also have turbans) and thick rimmed glasses. There is no coffee served here. But it is a good place to do yoga with other expats and affluent locals and also pick up a box of pancake mix from the imported foods store on the way home.
I’m getting better, inching my desperate fingertips closer to my toes every session (even growing my nails out to let it happen sooner), but still not practicing on my own or doing the things necessary to improve between sessions. I just know that I must be that guy that makes people uncomfortable because I ‘peek.’ You know, nothing perverted or anything, but it’s tough not to check out the scene when I’m already holding two opposing limbs in the air and then I’m asked to lift a third by a teacher whose english is fluent but grammatically delayed. So here I am with my head between my legs, red faced and shaking, and what am I supposed to do but look up and glance over at one of the flexible fine women who are executing the poses with great success.
This is my apology. I promise I only peek to make my yoga better. I would never disrupt the sanctity of the studio for a trashy glance at a female in a compromising position.
The dude still trying to touch his toes while you grab onto your shoulders with your arms threaded through your legs.