New York City

Last night, a big guy from NYC showed up to take my yoga class. When I say big, I don’t mean fat. I mean big and wide-shouldered with thick legs and feet, like he might have played football in high school. He was traveling for his job and wanted to drop in. After being asked where he was from, he announced loudly and proudly, “I’m from New York City.” I couldn’t resist the temptation. I blurted out, “NEW YORK CITY?!” You know, like that old salsa commercial for Olde El Paso? I thought to myself, that boy sounds like he’s from Illinois. People in their 20s always do this. They grow up in the Midwest and then move to the coast and then come back and announce that they live in some very important-sounding place. Everybody stared at him, wondering why he wasn’t doing hot yoga somewhere, and then we started practicing. In Oklahoma, we’ve all learned to be comfortable living in a fly-over zone. We know that where you live doesn’t have anything to do with who we really are inside, and we are amused by people that haven’t figured this out yet. His big NYC entrance was no match for my yoga pranayama voice, and he fell fast asleep in Shavasana. He was snoring so loudly it was echoing around the room. It was hilarious watching this big dude go down so fast and so hard. It’s tiring being from NYC. Afterwards he hung around and talked to everyone and charmed all the women. With a sweet smile he says earnestly, “I feel so much better, you are a great teacher!” It’s a funny job, putting people to sleep, and then when they wake up they sometimes show me their true spirits.