"Take a deep breath in through your nose and hold it," the nubile, young, yoga instructor said.
No problem. No problem if it wasn't allergy season or if Belinda's decongestant had actually worked. It would be an act of God or a major pharmaceutical company if she could breath through her nose any time in the next six months.
Belinda cracked her lips open a tiny bit and sucked in tiny amounts of air.
"Just forty-five more seconds and you can let your breath out," she said.
How long is 45 seconds? According to her grandmother, long enough to say two Hail Mary's. One and a half commercials during prime time. Long enough to miss the call from her boss scheduling her overdue review. Belinda's lungs were convinced that it was 35 seconds longer than her lungs wanted to hold in the stale, southern California air.
Belinda quietly panted quietly so she wouldn't pass out from lack of oxygen. She hoped desperately that Shawn, a co-worker, wouldn't notice. Shawn was convinced that yoga could fix anything that ailed a person from bad karma to an overdrawn bank account. Then again, Shawn was five years younger, 20 pounds lighter, and had been doing yoga since she was in her mother's womb.
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