The Shroud of Turin

shroudDisclaimer:  I am not making fun of religion, crucifixion, defenders of Christ, Romans, Jews, or their countrymen or anyone who sweats in a profuse and horrifying manner.

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.