[Six]the yoga instructor murmured good morning to everyone like a hushing elementary school administrator, moved slowly among us as though to be sure to get her damper around every echoing surface before some "brash brad" should walk in exclaiming good mornings: her yoga studio, her mood. or the highway, one must assume.
not very many brads in seven am yoga; those who are, generally sleepy and abashed more than brash.
she beamed insipidly, and after some spin-up started off with a guided visualization in lotus, leading us through postcard landscapes of natural beauty and tranquility and then back into our sleepy and sore bodies in our poor postures on a padded floor in some basement studio under a bar and a palm reader in the gentrified fringe of the city at seven fifteen before work, with the admonishment that we should try to keep our attention fixed on being here now.
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