Beverly Hills Maasai Read Online Free PDF Page B

sculptor, or a quilter, or a potter. She needed to find out who she was.
    My greatest fear was that she was going to start dating again … dating younger guys. Beverly Hillsreally was becoming Cougar Town. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than what happened to a friend of mine—running into her mother while she was out clubbing, bumping into her at the bar. How incredibly embarrassing! And to make it worse, they were dressed almost identically! I figured there should seriously be a law against people over thirty wearing stilettos and spandex.
    I was startled out of my thoughts when something moved, catching my eye. It was my mother, down on the floor in her black exercise clothing, stretching on her little exercise mat. She was in the enthusiastic stage of one of her latest passions—yoga.
    “Hey, Mom,” I said.
    She inhaled deeply and then released her position and slowly rose to standing. I had to admit she was doing it pretty well, sort of gracefully, like a cat or a ballet dancer.
    “Hello, my darling,” she said. “Would you like to join me?”
    “Thanks, but not right now,” I replied.
    She raised her hands above her head, touching her palms together, then raised one foot until it rested against the thigh of her other leg.
    “Standing Tree,” she said.
    “What?”
    “This position is called Standing Tree.”
    That name at least made sense. There were so many terms she’d thrown at me over the past month—the Cobra, the Bridge, the Lotus, and of course my favourite, Downward-facing Dog. My dog, Sprout, was
very
good at that last position. On occasion my friends and I had done “hot yoga.” It was like regular yoga but in a room only slightly less hot than an oven. Talk about feeling the burn! It was good exercise, but I really didn’t like working up that much of a sweat, nor did I have time to learn all those silly names for positions. Just tell me to lie down, touch my palms to the floor, whatever.
    But at least I could appreciate yoga … well, I appreciated all the clothing associated with yoga. There were some wonderful outfits by some of my favourite designers. Of course, just as with stilettos and spandex, I figured there should be a “best before” age limit on yoga clothing.
    My mother said that yoga was making her feel younger. I don’t know how many times over the years I’d heard her say that “forty is the new thirty,” or “fifty is the new forty.” By that logic, dead must be the new eighty.
    “This is
so
relaxing,” she said.
    She did sound relaxed. Calm. That might be helpful right now.
    “You really should try this,” she urged me.
    “That’s okay. I just wanted to ask you something,” I said.
    “You could ask while assuming this position.” She lowered her leg and came over to me. “Here, let me show you.”
    I knew there was no point in arguing. Soon this latest craze would pass and we could file yoga under painting in the “past hobby” category. Although this little obsession had been going on for a while. Thatand computers. What a strange combination: something from ancient times and computers. And of course she had the most up-to-date, modern, expensive computer that money could buy—that my
father’s
money could buy. She was taking a course. It was almost amusing to hear her talking about the Internet as if it had just been invented.
    I tried to mimic her yoga position. She helped move my leg up and shifted my hands a little so they were in the right position.
    “Now isn’t that restful?” she asked.
    “Sitting is restful. Lying down is even more restful.”
    “Just hold the position, and you’ll see.”
    I found myself working hard to maintain my balance and not topple over.
    “You wanted to ask me a question?” she said.
    “Yeah, right.” I wanted to word this just right. “I was wondering if you’d mind if I had some friends over.”
    “You know your friends are always welcome in our home,” she said. Her voice was very calm, and I