the best destination

Fingers clasped in a fist under my chin, elbows opening and closing, faux handles for the bellows of my lungs, breath in for a count of six and then out and in again and out again and in again and out again. Seemingly forever until we can finally move on to something even more grueling. The breath should focus the mind. The quiet mind should sooth the restless spirit. But all I can think is that I smell like pastrami. Do you know how disturbing it is to breath in your own pastrami smell? And compelling? I'm suddenly hungry.

Now I'm thinking about my hunger. That and that I'm mad, downright angry at Shonda Rhimes, Exec Producer of Grey's Anatomy. Standing on one leg, the other straight out in front of me, looking over my shoulder at the back of the room, chin and bottom of foot facing in absolute and opposite directions. Impossible and I don't care. How dare she let Izzie cut that wire?! What is she thinking? That's completely completely inexcusable. How am I to forgive her?! How is she going to fix this? How is she going to make it right, dammit?

Mmm. . . with a little sauerkraut.

And then the giggles start. Like the time my mom and I were visiting a new church and the soloist's voice bore a distinct resemblance to that of Big Bird. It starts as a grin and ultimately explodes through the nose. No grace. No composure. Body ragdoll weak under the force of the hilarity and that i-just-can't-stop-god-help-me-but-i-can't shake of the head. Toe pointed behind me to the ceiling, reaching to the mirror with my opposite hand, body dropping to perpendicular with the floor. Don't look at your cohort. Breath. Don't think about how oh-my-god-how-funny-it-is. My mother and I had to leave the church, running up the aisle, still in a fit of giggles, never to return. And yet they say God loves laughter. And I can't help but agree. Why else would he have given Big Bird a solo?

On rye.

I'm SNORT-laughing by now. It's all Audra's fault. In her funny boyshorts with the incongruously bulky fly. Her intense commitment to not falling out of the posture. Arms waving. Face straining. It's not funny at all. But it is. And she's trying not to laugh too which makes it worse. And I smell like a hot sandwich. And I keep wondering if the instructor is going to offer me a schmeer of spicy mustard with my position adjustment. I'm on my knees and gasping for breath. Not from the yoga. From trying -- oh-god-i'm-trying-so-very-hard -- not to laugh. And failing miserably. Tears streaming.

I'm mortified and that too makes it worse. All those silent, stoic yogi's staring as they stand on singular legs like so many disgruntled storks.

Have you reached a state of enlightenment maybe? the instructor wants to know. She doesn't mind the laughing. She really is a fabulous teacher.

Enlightement? Doubtful. Still, I like the idea. Laughter as evidence of such. Not just a medicine for the pain, but the destination as well.

And man, does it feel good.

Even just the idea.