Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'I like tea and yoga, but I don't do yoga.' Moby

To keep my muffin top in check, so that I can close all the buttons on my Levi's, I have a strict, non-negotiable regimen; Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are badminton days. The others, except for day off Sunday, are hot yoga days. Combined, they keep my spare tire slightly deflated.

I should give thanks to the movie '300' for this motivation; the only violent movie wife-Kelly enjoyed due to the plethora of six pack abs.

In Canada, a male is obligated to give hockey a try, so your first pair of shoes is normally skates, and you learn hockey before you can crawl. The second pair might be cleats or skis. Later, maybe court shoes, usually tennis.

No one gets a yoga mat. It's one of those things you have to buy yourself. When you're older.

It has a flaw that I had to overcome. In my milieu, yoga is for women; therefore, it had to be a male that introduced the activity to me. That was Rick, a childhood friend whose baby shoes happen to be cleats, and therefore played rugby.

He lived nearby at a time when you knocked on a neighbour's door, and then ran around unsupervised in a seemingly safe world. We were a group of four that used to play tag in the park, and street hockey in front of the house. We attended Sir John A. Elementary for six years, and then Oakville High till we exhausted the public system.

He still lives nearby, and I usually run into him a several times a year. I enjoy talking to him for one minute before I'm done catching up, and ready to go. He is charismatic, smart, and handsome. He is still in touch with most of our high school class. Last time I bumped into him, I got an update on Mike's rehabilitation, and on Gerald's messy divorce after his mistress became pregnant.

I had a gentleman's rivalry with Rick; he would cheer for The Canadiens at the Leafs game, drink Labatts instead of Molson's, and preferred new Star Trek over old.

He is also the only openly gay person I know, and he did it at a time when he would have been labelled as 'weird' or 'different' or 'odd'.

Rick is tall, with a square jaw, bright white chicklet teeth, and clear blue eyes. He was quarterback on the football team, captain of the rugby team, valedictorian, and got the principle's medal for a perfect GPA. I was one step behind in gym class sprints, and had an almost perfect GPA.

Rick is as opposite to me as can be. His memorial would probably start with

'Toronto, Canada, and the world are in deep mourning, shocked and saddened at the tremendous loss of one of its best, a pillar in society, Rick...'

He had many girlfriends in High School before coming out. When he did, despite the culture, everyone accepted him, except for exes that were in denial.

I endured his hypocrisy, forgivable for a six year old; he used to play the old 'faggot on the loose' joke on me at recess to make the other kids scream and run away in our unfenced schoolyard. It was a forgivable because I didn't know what that meant, and I doubt he did either.

I bumped into him in a Starbucks line one day, as he proudly displayed his rolled up yoga-mat attached to his backpack.

"Yo Hairy," he shouted, demonstrating his knack for creating hateable monickers.

Of his many good qualities, his loud, carrying voice is not one of them. I was, however, grateful that he has forgotten other nicknames. He was also guilty, on my birthday, of acknowledging that April 1 is Fool's day, and that the first three letters of my name are a laugh, so in elementary school I was also treated to, 'It's April Fool Har Har Harry!' until summer break erased it from his mind.

When I met him in the coffee line, I carelessly asked him what he was up to, and then received a dissertation on his pastime.

"Glad you asked. I am just on my way to hot yoga," he stated, matter of factly, "you should give it a try. You stretch, balance, and sweat like a son of a gun." He leaned in, and whispered,

"And I get to look at a roomful of hot chicks," and then he winked at me. The ambiguity threw me off; I wonder: when he winks, is he hitting on me?

It was at these moments that I also wondered if he was really gay. He always talked about women, about how and where to meet them, and I often see him flirting with them;  yet, I was certain I had met him and his boyfriend in this very line a few years ago.

He also assumes that he knows me well, and made the following claim,

"Hot yoga is a very individual thing, perfect for you," and then made me promise to give it a try, which I was happy to do in the line-up to make him shut up. I refused his demand for a 'pinky swear', but, to break the impasse, I absolutely guaranteed that I would go, because he was about to recruit the entire lineup to his cause. He gave me the location and time that I should do so.

I then watched him in action at the Starbucks counter; he made the barista blush when he gave her a very loud,

'Thank-you! You are the sweetest kitten! I love you," as if she had given him a bar of gold instead of a Grand Latte, and then produced an enormous smile when he noticed his name written neatly on the cup with a heart over the 'i', for which I am impressed; I would have never been able to get that kind of individual attention, even when I was single. He grabbed a second cup, and with a sad and reluctant inflection in his voice, said,

"See you next time sweetheart, bye bye," and joined another slim man sporting a 70's mustache, and an ascott, who I assumed was his new boyfriend. That didn't register to the cashier who watched him wistfully, making me wait a few seconds longer for my brew. That is another reason I don't like Rick; he has aged very well, and looks only half his years, so, the young woman may have thought he could be an eligible boyfriend.

This lead to my next obstacle; that I would also be labelled as another man that goes to yoga to ogle women wearing minimal, tight, clothing.

By some miracle, motivated to find a cure to my morning lower back rust, I managed to put that label aside for an hour, and five years ago, made it to the studio at the appointed time. I found an open corner in the back of the warm room that felt like a nice sauna. I kept my head down.

When class started, they told me to breathe. I did. Stand. Easy. Then touch my toes. Aced it. Lunge, no problem, I do that in badminton all the time. I had to hold it, and then the trouble started. Exponentially. Managing that, and starting to breathe hard and sweat, I had to make a pretzel out of my arms and legs while balancing on one foot. The sweat poured out like a squeezed sponge, and I was gasping. That was the first five minutes.

I was shocked that balancing on a mat in a sauna can be exhausting, and, rejuvenating at the same time.

Then I cooled off on the walk home, looked in the mirror, and stood on one leg for several minutes without the slightest wobble.

I can now stand on one leg when demanded, and have progressed to 'toe pose', which is basically levitation except that a few tip toes might needlessly touch the ground.

In order to focus on being 'present', for which I am still trying to perfect the concept, I have resorted to renaming the poses; eagle pose is pretzel pose, tree pose was palm-tree in a hurricane, but has been downgraded to elm tree in a strong breeze. Gorilla pose does not need to be translated; it is appropriately named. But my favorite, warrior two, is still, and always will be, badminton lunge pose.

Hot yoga broke through my perceived male barriers, and it met some of the other criteria, the main one being individual. Yet today, the main goal is to empty my mind and think about nothing while in Shavassna. That is why I have to go today.

I am unsuccessful, wobbling and stumbling so that my one leg toppling tree did topple, and 'dancers' resembles a flapping flag. I even pant in shavassna; it is impossible to be 'present'. I am thinking of several things at the same time; Kelly's death, memorial, boyfriend, Sudan. I also try to make a mental agenda of the next two days which includes an immediate visit to Facebook. Yet these are minor, the big thought circling the edges of my mind like a vulture, is tomorrow; the cremation.