Urban Kvetch: My Yoga Instructor

My Yoga Instructor

With your dark hair pulled back, smoldering eyes, scrupulous Ashtanga technique and mild scent of patchouli, you, sir, are a walking cliche(from the ’90s no less), yet when you told me after class in your brooding, dead-ringer-for-Banderas baritone that next time I was holding a difficult pose that I should “feel free to cry,” I only wanted you more, damn it.

What do you think?

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The international media conspiracy and/or the new Jew review. Take your pick.

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