The Egyptian Tradition of Yoga

By Anne Chudobiak

“Set your intention for this class,” J. tells us.

“Confidence,” I think, drawing back my shoulders, which are hunched from hours at the computer. I’ve been tackling the hardest genre of them all. Not the novel. The CV.

J. is my favourite yoga teacher. She came to the practice after a bout of anxiety attacks when still in her teens.

“Imagine,” she says, laughing, “what you’d all look like if you didn’t take the time to come to the Y.”

Twenty thirty-somethings running red lights and cursing anti-smoking laws, sucking their thumbs and yelling into cell phones--aimlessly, to no avail. Lululemons.

J. is not my only teacher. There is also L. She teaches bellydancing. She wears tight shirts with obscene slogans (“Ride a Cowboy!). She wears skinny jeans and has for years. For her, they’re not a fad; they’re a staple. She calls us girls.

“Okay, girls,” she says, with a glance over her shoulder. “Lets *#@* this up.”

She tells us that if we want to have more energy we should eat more protein. She herself lives on only eggs, bacon and souvlaki. Her hair is dirty blond and double-jointed, coiled.

She calls our imaginary audience “the victim.” One of the moves is called “Take the money.” She swears that we are learning the Egyptian tradition.

I get cranky if I miss a class.

I can’t write without J. or L.

“It’s so hard,” I whine to a friend.

“I know,” she says. “I wrote my C.V. last week. I got J. to read my statement of intention. Very helpful.”