You Can’t Take the Lebanese Out of the Yogi

On Thursday, the 2012 Bahrain Yoga class held its graduation.  Our Lebanese yogi suggested the Ritz Carlton Mai Tai Lounge as our celebratory venue.

A real Lebanese, after four hours of celebrating, she also suggested we go for an après-party at Bushido.  Bushido was having a big invitation-only party and DJ Ravin was supposed to make an appearance.  Of course she “knew” someone who could provide us passes.  After much discussion four of us climbed into my car to party on.

Outside the club, there was a big ta-doo about the full parking lot.  After security searched our clutches, names were mentioned and we found ourselves directed towards our black wristband’s proper entrance.

The party desperately needed women.  As usual about 80% of the guests were men and the women who came, came with a date.  Unfortunately, our party of four married women really did not improve the men to women ratio.  After collecting our complimentary hats and tee-shirts we formed a small circle off to the side of the dance floor.

A blond woman was screaming into a microphone that it was only 3 MINUTES UNTIL THIS PARTY REALLY LETS LOOOOOOOOSE!

I didn’t understand why the party hadn’t started yet.

At one minute until midnight, she screamed at the men to MAKE SOME NOISE and began counting down.  I finally understood the theme – we were counting down for THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BUSHIDO!  WHOOHOO!

When the counter turned 12:00, a birthday cake popped open and a tall, blond woman who looked like Barbie dressed in pastel marshmallows jumped out.  A couple, sexy friends joined her and before we knew it, the three of them were dancing like it was   –  their job.

Our Lebanese friend grabbed our hands and we started our own little party.

A young man wearing a yellow polo shirt danced his way through our circle.  Thinking he was meeting his friends, I watched him go.  Then he reversed and danced his way back.    On the third fly-by, he positioned himself in the center and let loose.  Although he was young and was wearing the fashionable, black-framed nerdy eyeglasses, his flappy man-boobs were not yoga-chic.

My friend stopped dancing and stepped towards him.  Like all Lebanese women she knew how to handle men.

Placing her hand together at her chest in prayer position, she closed her eyes and gave a gentle bow with her head.

The man did not get it.

She pressed her hands onto his shoulders and looked him in the eye.  Then, again she brought her hands into prayer position and slowly bowed more deeply.  The man paused then POOF! – disappeared.

You can’t take the tranquility out of a real yogi either.



Tales by Chapter

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