Beng Kidney is just like you. He makes one to two stools per day and uses a small net to fish them out and give them to the neighbour’s dog for a treat.

There’s a little Kidney in us all.

I tried hot-room yoga recently. Nothing about hot room yoga held any appeal to me, but I’d been invited by a handsome woman, which can make my feelings flexible on a variety of subjects, including sweaty displays of flexibility.

I arrived late, having punctured en route, enraging the chief yogini. She had me fill out several forms and pay her fourteen real dollars as punishment for my proclivities. Vacantly looking around the reception/shop area as she fiddled with the eftpos machine and squinted at the gibberish I had listed as my personal contact information, I noticed how jarringly expensive it was to dress in formless cloth and rub your leathery flesh with one part in a trillion homeopathic awareness solution.

The yogini gestured towards the location of the changing rooms, a progressive, unisex format, with a wicker basket of organic tampons for a dollar a pop and curtains instead of doors. I de-panted in an area that had the intimate atmosphere of a supermarket aisle and hobbled into some yoga-proof shorts. Ready!

I entered the yoga studio as quietly as I could manage, but the door squeaked and my feet make a light sticking sound on the wooden floor. There was a soft, emotional hum sounding from speakers screwed to the roof beam, enlightenment-grade incense burning in the corner wafting above peace-rated candles, and a silent tension emanating from the seated patrons whose eyes twitched at me, simmering with indignation and the terrible burden of calm.

There were several handsome women in attendance, many of whom I would have attended yoga classes for, but I spied my particular companion for the session in the far corner of the room. I squeezed between the freed minds, who shushed me as I laid my mat down beside the particularly handsome woman. I nodded to her and waggled my eyebrows for fun. She stared at me blankly, her left foot peeling up to meet the back of her head in a manoeuvre that appeared to be placing undue torsion about her organs.

She looked wonderful despite the posture; her skin had the dew of supermarket fruit, freshly sprayed by an apathetic teenager in a dignity-sapping uniform. She was dressed in special yoga pants that conformed to her yoga-whittled figure with scrupulous accuracy.

In the lull in activity that followed I made another sage observation: Jesus Herbert Christ it was hot, I was dripping already. The air felt both thick and thin: oppressive and wet, but oxygen deficient. It had to be sucked on like a wet rag for sustenance. The class proper had begun, and the head yogini led us in a rousing ‘oooom’ to bolster camaraderie. I was struggling to even cross my legs and was given a learner rectangle to sit on. I felt ashamed of my terrible life, perhaps this was the spiritual growth I had previously been lacking.

The class continued as I alternately mopped my soggy brow with an organic towel and tried not to pass gas in overt ways. The instructor eventually presented me with a second learner rectangle to stack above the first one to light my path to internal clarity. I did feel a bit light-headed.

Like all good things it ended after a protracted period of looking at my watch, and the class finished with a nurturing song about metaphors done in the acoustic medium by what I can only assume was a very spiritual blonde lady with an album available in reception.

My handsome companion joined me in the changing rooms and my hollow eyes were undoubtedly full of new feeling. I rinsed myself free of salt crust and she declined a goodbye hug as I was still too sweaty and probably smelt bad.

I walked my bike home and considered my life up to this point, it was all bad.

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