I’m in yoga. I went to be flexible for my Torah class later in the evening, flexible enough to see alternative readings of the sacred text, alternative interpretations, alternative ways out of religious obligation.
We’re asked to move our mats to the side of the room and, God forbid!, dance. I can’t dance. I was raised a Seventh-Day Adventist. I’m only comfortable dancing with me. This room is filled with women. Oy, what if they are unclean? What if they are goyim? I’m swimming in a sea of bleeding shiksas! Oy, the shame! Oy, if the rabbis saw me now, they’d be saying, "I was a smart Jew to kick him out of my shul."
I retreat to a corner of the room and unleash a few moves on the post. This is not erotic, therefore it can’t be a sin.
We’re supposed to keep our eyes clothes but I must check out the moves of that young woman over there… Ahh, so pure and sweet and free. Now I’m inspired. Now I’m John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Now I’m burning up the dance floor.
Prenatal yoga is the next class. Maybe I should stay to develop my kundalini.
