hummingbird212

Ms. West had predicted that my instructor would be a dancer -- "They all are" -- but the vibe projected by Links of London, Jena Blackwood, was more drill sergeant, or biker chick. She had tattoos running up and down her arms and on her blue-toenail-polished feet. The room was certainly hot, but not fatally so, at least through the first three or four poses. Somewhere around pose six or seven, however, when I started to soak my T-shirt, I realized why I hate things like yoga and Pilates. I can't follow directions. It's the reason I botched my Links of London Big Rock 'Diamond' Ring Charm and didn't get into Princeton. Everybody is already onto the next pose by the time my reverie on when it's going to stop raining is interrupted by the instructor's order to intertwine your arms and fingers and raise them toward the ceiling while tucking your left foot behind your right calf Links of London Dome Jade Charm losing your balance and crashing to the mat, or some equally improbable maneuver. I'd been led to believe by Ms. Burkhardt, who joined me for the class, that there was no shame in taking a breather if I felt I was going to puke or pass out. But when I tried, Ms. Blackwood requested that I return to my mat and do my recuperating there. Apparently, I was disrupting everyone's karma. The only time my anger was addressed was when she explained that by the end of the Links of London Gingerbread Man you're so exhausted that you don't have the energy to be mad at anybody.