I’m unrolling my yoga mat in the front row once I see him walk in. He chooses the space alongside mepersonally, as he does each Saturday morning, although I do not even know his name. The course begins with deep breaths, and I could tell he’s producing his chest rise and fall in sync with mine. I inhale the faint, sweet odor of chlorine on his shaved head once we’re inches apart from each other in Downward Dog. I feign to stop my eyes throughout the hour of presents. Then, eventually, I muster the guts to speak to him for the very first time.
“Thank you,” he states. “I enjoy your Blooming Lotus.”
We wait patiently in line to reunite our blankets and cubes, and I can not help discovering the elegant curve of the backbone. He turns about and extends his hands.
I hand him my props, and he sets them off. He is touching my blanket. The gesture feels really romantic. That is why I am ready to say what I have been wanting to say for months, because this class started: “would you like to catch some lunch?”
We agree to meet at the lobby, I then chased in the locker room to change and shower. Sneakers? Boots? I change my sneakers five times, and also the girls blow-drying their own hair in their panties grin in the mirror in my jitters. I scatter my heartbeat points with Clinique Happy perfume, glow my lips, and pop a breath mint.
“What is your title?” I inquire as we walk in sunlight together.
I attempt to maintain a straight face, but ultimately I must laugh. Obviously he enjoys my title. I am his wife.
We have renovated two homes, lived in 3 towns, parented colicky infants and moody teenagers, and survived the downturn and the election–collectively. But now we are pretending none of that’s occurred yet. We are imagining that this is our very first date.