Making It

Alex was intimidated. Three women, yoga practitioners all. One hour behind closed doors. Serious mood lighting.

“At first I was unsure that I’d be able to last for a full hour,” he would say later.

The women murmured encouragement and advice as the hour approached. “Concentrate on your breathing,” Nelly offered.

Alex and the yoginis took off their shoes at the entrance to the space-age meditation chamber and donned requisite white socks. They reminded him of the tube socks he wore at Madison Junior High in New Jersey. He pulled them up all the way, like he used to do before Heather Zee turned to him during gym class and told him scrunched was the fashion.

The lighting inside made the socks look blue. It made everything look bluish. He wondered again if he’d last an hour in blue-bathed meditation. Alex tends toward fidgety.

The first giggle escaped even before he sat down on a square floor pillow. It didn’t come from him. Alex doesn’t giggle, though he does a mean imitation. Sure enough, it belonged to one of the yoginis. He couldn’t be sure which because, within seconds, all three were giggling. The giggles stopped, then started again. They bit their lips, but giggles bubbled to the surface. Tears streamed down their faces as they sat cross-legged, eyes closed and hands resting on their knees.

And Alex thought to himself: “I’m going to win this contest. I’m going to beat the yogis at their own game.”