By Stewart Mandel
There has only been one time in my life when I truly thought I might die.
It was a hot, July day and I was trapped inside a small, un-air conditioned room on the 12th floor of a Manhattan building. There were about eight of us there, and a strange woman was delivering instructions to us from the front of the room, forcing us to crouch our bodies to the floor and hold them there for inordinate amounts of time.
Mind you, she was talking to us with a calming, somewhat sensual voice, and there was tranquil music playing in the background. Still, I’d never felt so physically drained in my entire life, so fearful I might faint at any moment.
It was my first yoga class.