I had enrolled in a naked yoga class on impulse. My husband was gone for two months that summer, and in my solitude, I began a spiritual exploration of sorts, signing up for Buddhist book groups, taking long, contemplative walks, and reading a good deal of Eckhart Tolle. I was in a normal, fully clothed yoga class when I struck up a conversation with the woman I’d been paired with for partner poses. She was incredibly flexible.
“Wow, what do you do for a living?” I said.
“I’m actually a yoga teacher myself.”
“Oh, like hatha? Vinyasa?” I asked, eager to show off how yoga smart I was.
“Not exactly …” she said. “Naked yoga.”
I blinked. She repeated it for me.