Tales from the Yoga Studio (17 page)

For months after the miscarriage, she couldn't stand having him touch her. She felt betrayed by her body and detached from it, as if it had rejected her baby. She'd never felt quite so disconnected from herself. When she and Glenn started having sex again, she'd pretty much gone through the motions to please him. He was so good to her and always had been. If he knew she was using her acting skills more than her passion, he never said anything. But for the past couple of weeks, she's felt connected again and in control. All that balancing on one leg has made her believe that she's capable of mastering her stability, physically and in other ways, too. When Glenn put his arms around her a couple of nights ago, she felt as if she was responding in a way she hadn't in far too long.

She goes to her closet and puts on a gray tank top edged in yellow and made out of a clingy material that absorbs sweat like a dream. Best of all, the deep V shows off her cleavage without looking as if that's the point. How'd that happen? She tries on a few different pants (she's been back to the store Becky took her to five times!) and goes with a pair of black crops. She can unzip them from the cuffs and show off her calves. Even the name of the company, which she initially found too cute for words, has begun to appeal to her. Lululemon. It's kind of bright and whimsical, and in addition to everything else, that's usually how she feels when she puts the clothes on.

T
he yoga studio is in a big white building a couple of blocks from the beach, and at 11:15 when Imani gets there, there's a line around the corner. It's kind of the way it used to be going to movie theaters in Texas when she was growing up, back when people went to movies. On top of that, there's a line of paparazzi in the street, snapping pictures. It almost feels like a premiere. Goddamned bunch of vultures, but on the other hand, she
does
love the way she looks in this outfit, and she slings her yoga bag over her shoulder and does a little hop up to the sidewalk.

Becky's near the front of the line, chatting with Sue Holland, child star turned alcoholic turned beloved teen idol turned serious actress, and Faith, one of the other leads from
Roommates
. They all greet with big, sisterly hugs, the unmistakable waiting-for-the-doors-to-open energy in the air. Imani can hear the paparazzi snapping pictures. “Imani, over here! Becky, how's it going?” Her manager will be thrilled if these photos show up on the Internet. She knows she's looking gorgeous.

“You didn't tell me Johnny Depp was teaching,” Imani says, nodding toward the long line.

“I took a workshop with Taylor in Kauai,” Sue says, “and he kicked my
ass
!”

This starts a competition between Becky and Sue about who has taken the most difficult and exhausting classes and workshops and how close to passing out each came how many times. Imani thought the whole point of yoga was a lack of competition, but she's definitely seen a lot of that over the last few weeks. She's been surprisingly good at rising above it, though. Although come to think of it, maybe being a purist about not competing is just another form of competition.

“I kind of feel as if we're dinosaurs,” Becky's costar says, “and these guys are the real celebrities.”

Someone in the line behind them says, “On Taylor's website, he said his agent is negotiating for a workshop in the Staples Center.”

“Agent?” Imani says. “Really?”

“It's a big thing now,” Becky says. “They can negotiate amazing contracts with studios and for workshops at retreats all over the world. I was talking with Yram Tild a few months ago—”

“Yram?!” Sue screams. “She is incredible. I've been trying to get into one of her workshops for months. You
know
her?”

“A little. Anyway, she said her agent got it in her contracts she has to fly first class, which makes sense because she has to start teaching as soon as she lands. And a lot of teachers get TV and video deals so—”

“I cannot believe you actually
talked
to Yram!” Sue says.

Imani has a vague sense that once upon a time, fitness teachers crowed about knowing movie and TV stars as a way to make themselves seem more important. Crazy world.

“The really cool thing,” Becky says, “is that I got
three
adjustments last workshop!”

“From
Yram
?” Sue shrieks. “Oh, my
God
!”

“How are you spelling that?” Imani asks.

“Y-r-a-m,” says Sue. “She's so ethereal and gorgeous, it's unreal. She's like a magic princess. She has American parents, but she was raised at a monastery in the Himalayas by monks who gave her her name and training.”

Imani is tempted to point out that “Yram” is “Mary” spelled backward but doesn't want to burst anyone's bubble. “I'd love to take her class,” she says, hoping it sounds convincing.

The inside of the studio is unexpectedly gorgeous, a lot of rose-colored wood and ivory walls. The room itself is heated, nearly hot, and there's a lot of polite but tense jostling for position. Imani's noticed this look people get when they're claiming their territory with their mats. They plant their equipment with focused intensity, no looking side to side, no acknowledging anyone else's presence even though the whole point of the intensity seems to be to keep everyone else away from them. They ought to just post a sign.

But today there are so many people, the mats are nearly on top of each other and half the people are sitting upright with their legs folded in lotus, looking as if they'll explode if anyone suggests they move. Someone does. A perky little woman in a unitard.

“Sorry, folks, but I'm going to have to ask everyone to reposition a little. We have thirty more people coming in. There's plenty of room in here if we line up properly. We'll start in the left-hand corner and skootch everyone together.”

“I hope you're not claustrophobic,” Becky whispers. “I'm so glad I took a hit of pot before I got in line.”

When Taylor Kendall comes into the room, there's a round of applause and the kind of cheers that Mick Jagger would envy. He's shirtless and wearing a pair of loose cotton drawstring pants that reveal a provocative hint of butt cleavage. He's not tall, and he's definitely not a bodybuilder, but there's something undeniably sexy about his lean, perfectly proportioned torso and his confident ballet dancer's strut, back arched and chest thrust out, as if he's showing off a tattoo somewhere above his nipple. His arms are topographical maps of musculature and the circulatory system.

“Okay, folks. There are eighty-six people in this room. But do you know how many are on the wait list? One hundred and twenty-five. And how many were turned away completely? At least two hundred more.”

Inexplicably, this provokes another round of applause.

“So I hope you're going to make good use of your time here and the
gift
of having gotten in.” This is the first time Imani has paid three hundred dollars for a
gift
. “You ready to begin?”

More applause, and this time Imani joins in—Taylor's wandering the room and is now right next to her.

“Okay, before we start, I want to tell you one thing. I know I look like a big dummy, okay. But I am not as stupid as I look, okay?”

There's a roar of laughter and applause, but in fact, Imani is relieved by the comment. You wouldn't mistake him for a brain surgeon.

“I know a lot of you came here today because someone said to you, ‘You have to go out to Santa Monica and take this class. This guy is a pretty good teacher.' Am I right?”

A lot of heads start bobbing. He lays a hand on Imani's shoulder. “Am I right, girlfriend?”

For the record,
Imani wants to say,
not every black woman in America wants to be called “girlfriend,” especially by some scrawny white guy she's never met before.

Instead she says, maybe a little too loudly, “Yeah, you right,
girlfriend
.”

Imani gets a big laugh, and he moves away from her quickly.

“The important thing to remember is that the class is not about
me
. It's about
you
. Okay? It doesn't matter how many people were trying to get in for my class today. It doesn't matter how many times I've been on
Larry King Live
. (Three, okay?) It doesn't matter that I've been on the
Today
show and that
People
magazine voted me ‘Sexiest whatever.' Who
cares
? Maybe you heard that I sold more DVDs on QVC than any other yoga teacher. Ever! Big effing deal. It's all about
you
. This class is only as good as you make it for
yourself
. And hey, you can buy the DVDs out front after the class anyway! I'm going to be signing them for an extra twenty-five dollars, three percent of which will go to the Taylor Kendall Foundation.”

Maybe she's imagining it, but Imani could swear he's giving her a cold, hard stare. He looks away and rubs his hands together.

“Are you ready? ” he shouts. “I said, are you
ready
? Okay, that's more like it. I'm going to make you wet today. I'm going to stretch you open, and we're going to go
deep
. You're gonna need to make noise, so make some noise. Let go and let it out. Let's
go
! Are you ready? Are you
ready
? Awesome. Now, everybody sit back down for a minute while I do a demonstration.”

By the middle of the class, Imani is indeed wet. Soaking, in fact, with sweat dripping down her face and even off of her fingertips. The fact that she's sweating as much as she is makes her care a little less about the people on all sides of her who are dripping onto their own mats and, when they stagger their bodies and extend their arms, onto hers as well. Taylor has long curly hair that comes down past his shoulders. He started off class with it in a ponytail, and in the past fifty minutes, he's had it up in a clip, wound into a goofy little topknot, and flowing freely around his shoulders. Imani wants to dismiss him as one more annoying narcissist, but he's a great showman, and at least to some extent, this is show biz.

The students are mostly thin women in their twenties who've somehow or other perfected the skill of silently drawing attention to themselves while looking as if they're completely absorbed in what they're doing. The men mostly bear a striking resemblance to Taylor, same types of bodies from what she can see, and either long-haired or completely bald.

While Taylor has given Becky two adjustments already (funny how you catch on to this kind of thing quickly) and one to Sue, he hasn't so much as touched Imani since their little exchange before class began.

Unfortunately, that's about to change.

As far as Imani can tell, he's putting the class through the same paces she's been put through in almost every class Becky has taken her to. The big innovation is that he's renamed every pose in a way that emphasizes parts of the anatomy. Not “down dog” (“too negative and demeaning”) but “up butt.” Not “child's pose” (“children go into a million poses every hour”) but “knees spread.” Not “plow,” the pose they're in now, but “crotch in face pose.”

“Drop your knees on either side of your ears and get your junk closer to your face,” he says. “You're sweaty, you're loose, here's your chance.”

Imani doesn't want a chance. Her back is starting to hurt and the combination of the heat, the sweat, and the imagery Taylor is using is beginning to make her feel a little ill. She stays in plow, legs straight. Plenty deep for her.

That's when he comes over to her and kneels on her mat with the front of his body pressed against her back and his face practically between her legs. This feels like the closest she's come to cheating on Glenn since she stopped doing love scenes on
X.C.I.A.

“Lower the knees,” he says.

She shakes her head, too contorted to say anything. Plus he's looking at her with more hostility in his gaze. Let him. She's not budging. He takes his hands and puts them on the backs of her thighs and applies pressure. When she doesn't move, he gives a little push.

That's when Imani feels something pop in her lower back.