This isn’t about Jesus.
This is about yoga.
Hot yoga…and my warped sense of visual association.
An epiphany struck me yesterday during my Bikram yoga practice which, by the by, I both love and despise with every fiber of my being.
Just before I lifted myself out of that resting pose…shinfeinayana or whatever and just before…parasinvania-something or another, I looked down…
There beneath me in stunning sweat-stained glory was a perfect outline of myself. My soaked, stringy hair, my shoulders (damn, they’re a little wide for my frame), my waist (need to work on the love-handles) and my short, circus-clown legs.
All I could think of in my heat-stroked delirium was that it looked like my own private Shroud of Turin.
Somebody roll that boulder away and let me out of this hot box.