(after Billy Collins)

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, as he sits beside me on his mat,

His legs spread out before him, 

His arm curved over his head, reaching toward the far wall.

 

I can’t help noticing his t-shirt, stretched tight over his rounded belly, 

Rising up and exposing an inch of jiggling flesh.

He might have chosen sweatpants over spandex, too,

but there he is in shiny blue tights, 

a huge grin on his face, a sheen of sweat already gleaming on his brow.

 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he repeats.

I wonder how he knows 

about this persistent issue with my lower back,

about my tendency, when others are around,

to show off, to overstretch, to twist too far 

and emerge feeling worse rather than better.

 

He certainly does not seem concerned about what others think.

His t-shirt rises further in the back and his tights slip down as he downward dogs,

revealing a slice of plumber’s crack.

“Oh Buddha,” I want to say,

“Where is your dignity?”

 

But he is not at all preoccupied with dignity.

In fact, he can barely contain his laughter,

As he looks around at this roomful of middle-aged women

and a few sensitive-looking men,

all seeming to want,

at least a little bit,

to impress each other.

 

The teacher comes in,

firm and glowing in her cotton leggings and

dusty rose t-shirt that fits perfectly,

not too loose and not too tight.

Her legs are long and toned,

her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

 

We all want to be her.

All, that is, except the Buddha,

who seems to find her funny, too.

 

I’m starting to wonder if he’s stoned,

given his incessant giggling,

which is starting to annoy me.

 

I want to tell him to hush.

I want to hear the teacher as she tells me what to do:

child’s pose, happy baby, tabletop,

warrior 1, warrior 2, and something with a long, unpronounceable name.

 

Why has the Buddha come to this class?

He doesn’t seem particularly concerned with fitness,

and surely he’s got the meditation thing down 

without the help of this youthful instructor

and her soft harmonic background drone.

 

As if reading my mind, he says,

“You know why I’m here—

to tell you not to hurt yourself,

which I already did, 

though it doesn’t seem to be working.”

 

“I haven’t hurt myself yet,” I say

“I’ve barely started stretching.

And isn’t it more likely I’ll hurt myself

With you here distracting me?”

 

He laughs again.

“Sorry,” he says, “very sorry.”

But he doesn’t look sorry at all, with

his twinkling eyes and a mischievous grin

tugging at his lips.

 

We’re doing abs exercises now.

I’m good at these—

I've been doing them at home

every morning. While the shower heats up

I do standing abs,

and later I get down on the living room rug

And do the floor ones.

 

I’ve also been practicing cognitive behavioral therapy 

on myself, to reverse

a lifelong habit of despising my belly.

Every time I catch sight of the curve of my midriff,

with its wrinkly squiggle above the belly button—

legacy of two pregnancies—

and hateful words arise in my head, 

I replace them with the mantra,

MY TUMMY IS CUTE, which inevitably makes me laugh.

I titter now, thinking of it.

 

“There you go,” says the Buddha.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” 

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