Page 3 of Red Zone Realizations
The teller asks me to put the check in the tube after I tell her I just need to deposit it. This has been my job every week since coming home from college. You’d think that my brother,Lane, would be doing errands like this, since he’ll eventually take over the auto parts store, but no.
I bid Melinda, the teller, goodbye as I pull away. Big Power Yoga isn’t far, and if I hurry, I’ll be able to get my regular spot.
Thankfully, I get every green light and make it in record time. When I pull open the door, I’m hit with the familiar fragrance of frankincense. Joe is the Thursday evening teacher, and a big fan of incense. The best way to tell a great yoga teacher from a mediocre one is how wild their instructions get. A good yoga teacher might tell you to “breathe into your ribs,” but an amazing one (the Joe kind) will tell you to “breathe the earth below into your toes and feel the vibrations releasing from your fingertips as you stretch them out and away from each other.”
That’s the very definition of digging into your soul and finding inner peace.
As I approach the desk, the warmth of the studio envelops me like a hug. Hot yoga is its own special kind of masochism, but one of which I am a dedicated patron. After years of coming to this same studio three days a week, it feels a little like coming home. Or, at the very least, what I imagine it must have been like on those old TV shows likeCheers, walking into the same townie bar every Friday night. I walk up to the front desk where Gigi is checking people in. Her long, dark hair hangs loose down her back and a smile blooms across her face when she sees me approaching, my hands full. Water bottle, keys, phone, mat, towel… all balancing precariously.
“Hey, Audrey! How are you today?”
“I’m good,” I reply.
She nods. “Okay, you’re all checked in. Enjoy your class.”
The five-fifteen class is always upstairs, so I head up the rounded staircase to the second floor and over to the cubes. Iset my mat down so I can unload everything else from my arms and get my shoes tucked away in the cubby. I unceremoniously hike my leggings up one more time, then shoulder my mat, grab my other stuff, and head toward the door of the yoga room. I grab my usual rectangle on the floor. It’s almost like a lingering habit from college—where you sat on the first day becameyourseat all semester.
After unrolling my mat, I settle in to do a few stretches while waiting for class to start. I take this time to let the heat of the room warm my muscles. Working on taking my focus off the day and my never-ending to-do list.
I’m casually glancing around the room while stretching my left arm over my chest, telling myself I’m not looking for anyone in particular... but I am.
I’m looking for Hot Yoga Guy.
I cross my legs on my mat and listen as Joe talks to us before class starts. He has dark, shaggy hair. He’s not the type of person you’d look at and think he’s an experiencedyogateacher, but when he strikes a firefly pose and he’s got both his legs off the ground, you’ll be convinced.You can tell he’s been a yoga teacher for a long time. I feel the whoosh of cooler air run over my shoulders as the door behind me opens and someone walks in and down the row. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of athletic leggings.
The sexiest thing a man can wear is those tights under athletic shorts. It’s the male equivalent of just hinting at what could be underneath.Man cleavage. A couple of the dudes here wear them, but I only have eyes for this one.
He lays his mat down at the back of the class, as per usual. He always practices against the back wall. Just like I always sit by the door. I silently think that he did the same thing in college, like me. Waiting for the class to start, I find myselfwondering what he’s like in real life. Is he a coffee drinker? Does he have the gene that makes cilantro taste like soap? What does he do for work?
He’s in amazing shape. The muscles on his arms and calves are defined. It hits you immediately when you see him. After his muscles, his green eyes are what stand out the most. Not emerald or forest, but more like a proud pine. One that stands high above the other trees. They’re surrounded by dark lashes that would make most women jealous. His hair is so dark brown it’s almost black, and the same color of heavy but neatly kept brows makes his green eyes pop even more.
I’m jolted out of my gawking when Joe starts class. His voice is soothing as he instructs us to move into child’s pose. We flow in unison for the next twenty-five minutes. The air in the room is humid, a balmy ninety-five degrees compared to the May breeze outside. Despite the sweet distraction of the man behind me, I find myself lost in the flow, feeling only my inhales and exhales as the tension leaves my body. I feel my feet planted on the mat and the sweat dripping long rivers down my face. It’s a pleasant, satisfying kind of exhaustion. The practice is meant to make you struggle, meant to break you apart until you’re just a body on the earth taking in oxygen.
“On your breath in, face the right side of the room. Lift your chest toward the ceiling, and on an exhale, bend forward for a wide-legged forward fold,” Joe instructs the room.
I’m an avid yogi, but I’m still human, and I cannot help that my eyes wander.
I’m immediately glancing around the room looking to see who will move upside down into a headstand. There’s a couple in the front row who’s here all the time, and I know they will find their headstand with ease. They’re both ripped. Ihave no idea what else they do besides this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s CrossFit.
My eyes land (naturally) on Hot Yoga Guy. He’s currently hanging out in his forward fold with his black-clad booty toward me. He straightens up for just a second to readjust his feet and sinks deeper into his fold. I catch the sight of a bead of sweat dripping down the strong arm closest to me. It continues down his forearm, sliding over delicious bands of blood vessels. Here I am, in a wide-legged forward fold on a Thursday evening in May, ogling a perfect man with a perfect ass, whom I have never spoken a single word to.
I’m hopeless.
I follow the line of his arm to his hands which he gently rests on the floor next to his foot. For the first time, I notice an angry red scar along his ankle. It looks fresh, the skin still shiny. I wonder again who this man is outside of Big Power Yoga.
“The light in me sees and celebrates the exact same light in you. Namaste.” Joe bows his head, ending the class.
With my hands held to my third eye center I bow in return. “Namaste.”
I clap along when the rest of the room does. We don’t always clap, it really depends on the vibe. I usually just go along with what everyone else decides to do. The feeling of the room is tired but lighthearted. People are greeting their neighbors and making small talk. I scoot off my mat so I can roll it up and put its strap on it, giggling in my head at my own words—Ha. Strap on. I pick up all my yoga shit and walk out of the room to retrieve my shoes and belt bag.
As I’m digging in my cube, I overhear Joe talking to a student. “How’s the ankle feeling, Noah?” His voice has a very distinct lilt to it that’s easy to recognize.
A deeper voice replies, “Good, thanks. I think the balancing poses are really building the strength back in it.”
My ears perk up.
Oh my God. Was that Hot Yoga Guy?
