Tales from the Yoga Studio (6 page)

But even standing next to a bona fide TV star (unless, given recent events in Imani's life, she's been demoted to “former TV star”) doesn't keep Katherine from going to that strange, beautiful place where she can think of nothing but what she is doing right now, stepping out of time and leaving all of her usual concerns outside. It's this moment and Lee's ability to bring her back to it again and again that helped her stay off drugs back when it was an uphill battle to do so. Now it's what keeps her on the right path. She feels an intense combination of happiness, gratitude, respect, and a few other less defined emotions that add up to the feeling that there's just nowhere else she'd rather be at this very moment. Unless maybe . . . except, no, she doesn't even know the big redhead. Here is perfect.

I
mani's underpants started creeping up her butt ten minutes into class, and by the time the teacher has them on their stomachs doing back bends, she can't help reaching down and adjusting them. Not a pretty move, but necessary. Next time—if there is one—she'll remember to wear a thong. Although God knows what problems that might present. There are two women in the front of the class who could join Cirque du Soleil tomorrow if they wanted to. What are they wearing, she wonders.
Very spiritual inner monologue
, she thinks, and then decides to drop the self-criticism. Half the people in the room are probably obsessing about their underwear. The other half are probably focused on the guy in front who's clearly not wearing any.

“Don't worry about lifting up your chest,” the teacher says. “Focus on pushing your feet back and feeling how you rise, softly, as if your heart is starting to swell with love and compassion.”

She comes over to Imani and, while still talking, gently moves her arms in a way that makes Imani feel as if her upper body floated off the floor.

“You're doing great,” she says quietly. Imani takes this to mean that she's doing so badly and making so many clumsy moves, it's obvious that she and this rubber mat are new acquaintances.

At the end, as everyone is lying on the floor in “corpse” pose—cheerful image—Imani decides that if she had to rate the experience, she'd give it a C minus. Or maybe a big fat D for “disappointing.” Like she needs one more disappointment.

The problem is, the class was better than she was expecting and she's actually feeling pretty calm and loose and relaxed, which means that she's going to have to tell all the people who've been advising her to try a yoga class—Cameron, Drew, Becky Antrim—that they were
right
. That's disappointing.

When everyone starts filing out, she stays on her back and starts doing some sit-ups. There's probably something anti-yoga about doing a sit-up, but too bad. Plus, it lets her stay a little low-profile. She hates it when she gets recognized and someone starts making a fuss over her and hates it even more when no one does. Lose-lose.

Ever since she lost the baby eight months ago and went into a very well-deserved depression, everybody's been saying: Try yoga, try yoga, try yoga. Like what? That's going to make her un-miscarry? It reminds her of the kinds of moronic things people said when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her mother should be drinking green tea. She should stop eating sugar. Has she tried aromatherapy?
It's not a headache
, she always felt like screaming.
It's cancer!

Good old L.A. Everyone's got the answer to everything, and she wishes that just once it didn't come down to the same hocuspocus New Age holistic bullshit. There's nothing she loves more than hearing advice about an herbal cure for cancer and the horrors of the
legitimate
medical profession (
Western medicine is inhumane!
) from someone whose face, body, and teeth indicate she's spent more time in hospitals than Dr. Kildare.

She's up to one hundred sit-ups and she's not stopping until she does another one hundred.

Another thing is Silver Lake. She'd never been up here before, even though she lives nearby in Los Feliz, but two weeks ago, when she was driving around in the aimless way she's taken to doing in the past month or so—afternoons can be surprisingly long when you're not working and your husband is a doctor—she headed up this way. She was shocked by the laid-back atmosphere, a crazy mix of new hippie, old-style rock-and-roll, and California cool, all blended in with sidewalk cafés and vintage clothes shops, loopy murals, and a surprising lack of chain stores. Everybody seemed to be hanging out. Like her, but less guilty about it. She made a mental note when she passed the yoga studio. Maybe this was what she needed. An out-of-the-way place where everyone was low-key and artsy-fartsy enough to guarantee a small class of eccentrics who never watch TV and wouldn't recognize her from her
X.C.I.A.
glory days. Wrong again. The classroom was jammed, half the students looked as if they stepped off the cover of
Yoga Journal
or
Vogue
, and a few of them did a double take and whispered when they saw her walk in. And okay, she still gets a charge from that, but not when she's about to make an ass of herself trying to stand on her head. (Who knew she'd find it so easy?)

Out in the reception, the crowd has thinned, but the beauty with the black hacked-off hairdo and tribal tattoos on her biceps who was practicing next to her is still there, chatting with a little group, including the teacher. Who, Imani must admit, is also a beauty. She has dirty-blond hair and well-bred bone structure, intelligence and kindness that radiate off her in waves.

The tattoo girl introduces herself—Katherine—and is so friendly, Imani doesn't mind when she says, “I recognized you right away. And awesome padangustasana, by the way.”

Imani can't help but laugh at that. “Pada
what
? ” she says. Half the poses were referred to with animal names and the rest with this pretentious language that was obviously Sanskrit. Or meant to sound like it.

“Wait. You don't mean that was your first class, do you? ” Katherine asks.

The incredulity in her voice is maybe the most flattering thing Imani's heard since the
L.A. Times
TV critic referred to her as “Halle Berry—if Halle Berry could act.”

“Guilty.”

“Oh, my God! You were amazing!” This is from the short, brown-haired woman giving off heavy “wannabe” vibes. D-girl, obviously. “You are a total natural. And can I just say, Thursday nights have
sucked
since you left
X.C.I.A.
I'm Stephanie. And this is Graciela, an amazing, amazing dancer.”

“When I'm not laid up,” the dancer says.

“We're working on her,” Stephanie says. “And tomorrow, Katherine is going to be literally working on her.”

Katherine makes some exaggerated gestures like a mad scientist kneading bread. Masseuse, no doubt. With those looks, she definitely gets great tips.

Stephanie says, “It's funny seeing you here. I was talking with David Caruso a couple of days ago. He was so great when he did those episodes of your show. He's dying to work on a project I'm setting up.”

“Uh-huh.” Typical development girl. This translates into:
I've been begging Caruso's agent to read a crappy script that's been shopped around for the past five years.
Still, there's something appealing about the woman, unless it's maybe a feeling of connection carried over from having been through the rigors of the class together.

Imani's a little disappointed the teacher hasn't said anything to her. She was always a bit of a teacher's pet, a feeling that's carried over into a desire to please directors, earn for her manager, and be her doctor's best patient. Two out of three isn't bad. The yoga teacher has moved behind the reception desk and seems preoccupied. When Imani catches her eye, she smiles and says, “You did a great job. And I hate to tell you, but I think there's a guy lurking outside with a camera. I'm assuming that's about you?”

“Oh, shit. I didn't think it would be an issue up here.”

She's always had a love-hate thing with the paparazzi. During the height of her
X.C.I.A.
days, when it was all relatively new, she actually loved the attention. The noise and flashbulbs were like exciting background music for the most mundane chores, and suddenly, life was like an exciting movie. And she was the star. She'd really made it, and who ever thought
that
would happen?

But when she lost the baby and they kept coming after her—at the hospital, weeping as she left her therapist's office—she began to think of them as vultures.
Please,
she'd beg,
leave me alone!
But of course that only made it worse. Something else for them to photograph. The dark side of the Hollywood dream, another cliché she'd stumbled into. It was one of the reasons she went back to Texas to be around her family for a month, leaving Glenn alone in L.A. When she came back, she vowed she'd never let them get to her again. Her manager hinted that a little attention from the tabloids might actually be useful at this moment, get people talking about her, if nothing else. But the last thing she wants is to be photographed minutes after she's been sweating her ass off. And isn't wearing makeup.

“Where's your car?” Katherine asks.

“Up the street. There's no way I can get past him.”

“We have our secrets,” she says, taking Imani's hand. “Follow me!”

She leads Imani out through the back and starts unlocking a big pink bicycle from a post. “You go straight up this alley, up around the block, and left at the Midnight Café. Give me your pack and the keys to your car and I'll meet you in front of the art gallery next door to the florist.”

“On the plus side,” Imani says, “I'm better at biking than I am at yoga.”

“Which you were great at.”

It's not until Imani is cycling down the alley that she realizes she's just given her backpack—with her wallet in it—and the keys to her
car
to a complete and total stranger. She starts laughing. Crazy, crazy. For some reason, she trusts Katherine more than she's trusted anyone in a long time. She looks like one of those reformed bad girls that are usually the most honest people you can run into. The bike is amazing, a combination of an old clunker from childhood and deluxe modern efficiency. Maybe Katherine made the real leap of faith by giving her the key to her lock. There's just no way you can feel depressed pedaling along on a pink bike. She might not come back to yoga class, but she probably should rethink that D rating. The day is rapidly turning into a B plus.

K
atherine has to admit she got a special kick out of plotting with
Imani Lang
and then driving
Imani Lang's
car up the block. She hasn't been on TV in close to a year (Perez Hilton was full of items about the miscarriage) but she's still gorgeous and it isn't like they get a whole lot of celebrities at the studio. Does it make Katherine shallow to be a little starstruck? Well, that and everything else about her, probably. The tabloids always portrayed Lang as a megadiva with an iron will. Not so. She was like a kid when Katherine complimented her poses. An exaggeration, for sure, but everyone has to start someplace.

Katherine has a noon client coming in for a hot rock massage, a policeman who's constantly making get-your-rocks-off jokes. She has a strong feeling it's all protesting too much and that he's a closet case, but at least he never makes a move. She heads back to the studio instead of circling the block again and checking for Conor.
He moved out here a month ago,
one of the other firemen told her, smirking, yesterday.
And no, he hasn't got a girlfriend
. “I didn't ask,” Katherine said.
Believe me,
he said.
You did.

Down the street from the studio, she notices the Mutt and Jeff guys who were showing off with their routine before class this morning getting into a car. When they close the door, she sees the logo for YogaHappens stenciled onto the side. (Prius, it figures.) She knew there was something about the two of them. The smug way they folded deeply into their paschimottanasanas, their showy ujjai breathing.