*Note: this post is part of a 20-day writing prompt 101 program I’m participating in. Today’s Prompt: “Think about an event you’ve attended and loved. Imagine you’re told it will be cancelled forever or taken over by an evil corporate force.”
This story is fiction. I had fun with it!
As she got off her bike to enter the crosswalk, she saw it: a giant red banner screaming Get your yoga butt here! $30 Intro Offer. Details Inside!
Huh? Erin paused, heeding the warning from the flashing red hand on the crosswalk signal. In five years of near-daily practice, she’d never seen anything like this. No sandwich boards, no sales pitches from teachers at the end of class, and certainly no obnoxious banners promising tight asses. What the hell was going on?
As she entered the crosswalk, she spotted Fran, a retired French teacher, who appeared equally incredulous. “Have you seen this?”
“When’s the last time you practiced?”
“Last Friday morning. You?”
“Thursday. They must have put it up over the weekend.”
They rounded the corner on Birch Street, and encountered the promise of a yoga butt once again – this time from a poster mounted on the front door. Unbelievable, Erin thought. I mean, yeah, even an established neighborhood yoga studio like hers has to bring in new students to keep the lights on and incense burning, but ‘Get your yoga butt here!’? That was a stretch. Literally and figuratively.
Upon entry, they nearly stumbled over a clothes rack. Hanging on it were a row of fluorescent crop tops, a couple of black and gold Body Magic-logoed off the shoulder (a la Flashdance) sweatshirts, and a pair of tights with what looked like cutouts that started at the ankle and rose all the way up to the outer hip.
“Holy shit. Are these for yoga or pole dancing?” an aghast Fran shrieked.
“Can I help you ladies?” the unfamiliar face behind the desk chirped.
“Who are you?” Fran turned. “Where’s Kate?”
“Oh. You must be one of the regulars…” the now not-so-chirpy desk attendant replied.
“What the hell is going on?” Fran demanded. “What’s with the trashy clothes and ridiculous signage out front? I don’t even recognize this place!” She walked toward the main studio, yanked open the door, and nearly screamed: “Erin! Get in here. They’ve painted the ceiling black and put fucking mirrors on all the walls!!”
Erin laughed, then nearly cried. Clearly, the owners sold out.
“Excuse me,” she asked the attendant, “did someone buy out the studio?”
“Yeah, but your membership is still good here. And seriously, at Body Magic there is so much more going on…hip hop yoga, vogueing-strike-a-pose yoga, yoga bootie…”
“Yoga what?” Erin cringed. She looked at the schedule, and not surprisingly, none of her teachers were on it. As Fran stormed out, she followed.
Clearly, the magic she’d found in her five years at this special little studio died the moment that sign went up.
Time to get her yoga butt out of here. Forever.