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By Matt Landig

As the old song goes, I like piña coladas, getting caught in the rain—and am definitely not into yoga.

So, what was I doing in a Saturday afternoon Yogaworks class?

“Great place to meet women,” my brother had said. 

But most sat meditating, impervious to conversation. Others marched past me, wordlessly determined, holding the studio’s industrial-brown mats above their heads, like worker ants carrying floppy Graham crackers. Sighing, I grabbed the last mat, dragged it to the back, plopped down on it. It smelled like a mortician's unwashed armpit. Mental note: Kill my brother.

The instructor, perky and petite, introduced herself as Tree. Throughout the hour, we exchanged quizzical glances. Our eyes kept landing on each other’s T-shirts; she was probably trying to figure out who Lou Reed was, while I was thinking, Who’s Lulu Lemon?

I found myself trying to impress her, attempting to contort my body into positions achievable only by a circus performer without vertebrae. Sheepishly, I’d raise my hand for Tree’s help. Heroically, she untangled my elbows from my thighs, held my right leg while I hopped on the left, and stifled her laughter when I stumbled to the floor. Fortunately, the walls were mirrored, to magnify my humiliation; I saw multiple Trees trying to catch multiple me's as they all fell splat on multiple mats.

“I never realized being healthy was this dangerous,” I joked to her.

“Take off your sunglasses,” she whispered.

I literally reached bottom attempting the “happy baby” pose, which consisted of lying on my back, clutching the insides of my knees, and forcing my butt into my face. I flashed back to Fifty Shades of Grey, not because of the sexiness of the pose (it wasn’t), but because of the myriad discolorations of my once-white underwear rising in rebellion from my sagging sweatpants. Is everyone staring at my boxers? Mental note: Kill Tree.

The final routine was something called Shavasana, Sanskrit for “Lie down, fall asleep, and snore.” So, I did.

Tree’s voice yanked me into consciousness: “The light in me sees the light in you,” English for “I saw your underwear.” Then she said, “Namaste.” 

What?

“Namaste!” said everyone.

Still didn’t catch it.

“Uh... Amen,” I said.

After class, I managed to find a bar down the street; Buddha must’ve given me karma points. Stepping into O’Malley’s, I glimpsed a woman in the corner. I froze.

She was the one.

Her ponytail frayed; her shoulders slumped. She looked like an exhausted kindergarten teacher. Still, she was gorgeous. Inhaling, I approached, tapped her shoulder.

Tree turned.

We looked at each other. We broke into laughter, the kind that shatters all tension and embarrassment. 

I ordered us two piña coladas.

—Matt Landig

Matt Landig is a UCLA alumnus. His poem "The Difference Between Flotsam and Jetsam" won Honorable Mention in the Dreams Come True contest (and was featured in the anthology of the same name) at Santa Monica College. His poem "Emotional Support Pig: A Love Story" was published in the 2022 Stories That Need To Be Told anthology (available on Amazon) and won one of five Merit Prizes. In 2024 his essay "Downward Facing What?" received an honorable mention in the Erma Bombeck Writing competition in the global humor category. His poem "My Son's Room" was long-listed for the Woody Barlow Poetry Contest and will be featured in the April 2024 edition of eMerge literary magazine. He has written a full-length play, Five Stars, and has just completed a short play, The Fat Trap.