Although I have an ambivalent relationship to yoga, that is, I like it but I am almost entirely inflexible (is that a metaphor?) my calves my hamstrings both more or less immovable and I don’t like the yoga language very much (I don’t understand how to move around my spine, how to add more air into my body, how to expand this and that, still I go to class on Sunday mornings when we are in town. I go to a Peruvian yoga teacher, good humored, wildly flexible, a man with seed bracelets. Probably Brazilian seeds. His name is Jorge, but he doesn’t seem like a George. More Juanish. The class is one of those upper west side strivers classes, even though this is YOGA for god’s sake (for ganesh’s sake?) and the entire class is thin. They can do thinks I couldn’t do even when I was 12. How and why is mysterious. And yet, I still go. Also, they were Yoga Outfits. Even the Thin Flexible Men wear yoga outfits. I feel better after class and always reward my efforts by walking straight to Rose in the flea market. One of my favorite flea market people ever. Rose has a $5 table a mile high piled with clothes, and every week she saves something amazing for me. Although one week she gave my dress (this is true) to Little Richard right in front of me. She told me it would have been mine if he hadn’t shown up, but he’s an older customer.