I'd love to see a reality show for lithesome enlightened secretly lonesome yogis, those ghostlike New Age Ken and Barbie dolls who haunt astanga studios, demonstrating perfect asanas and sex with the sky; yet who inwardly yearn to be plump, omnivorous and jovial, to strike up relationships in cafes with buxom waitresses and construction workers, and some day, God willing, just lay back and bathe in the benediction of the ordinary, exquisite in their age spots, wrinkled and tummied by the yoga of imperfection.
It's OK to get old, you know. Its' OK to turn 40, or 50, or even more. It's OK to skip one or two steps, to slouch a little in your pose, to listen to the kinder teacher in the center of your spine whisper, "Like this," and fail your way down to the perfect breath, that is always the breath of Now.
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