So You’re NOT Going to Naked Yoga?

Willie has taken up yoga.
For someone who has not been to a class before, the man is surprisingly flexible.
And after years of practice, I find this natural lithe-ness of his to be, as I like to refer to it, “vexing”.
“The man’s like a freakin’ reed,” I gripe to Mary.  “Why should he be so flexible?”
She shrugs, I am sure of it, a nuance I am able to discern through years of intensive phone use.  “Maybe he’s been getting up at night, dropping into the splits while you sleep.”
We grin at each other, two disembodied chuckles.
“Get off my line,” I mutter darkly.
“Don’t call me again,” she threatens.
After his initial disappointment in finding that there will be no need for “yoga shoes”, Willie being something of a clothes horse, has taken comfort in the need for sleeveless tees. 
He has dressed in a pair of basketball shorts, a dark sleeveless tee.  “We want to get everything tucked,” he says, bending forward and assuming Downward Facing Dog, “If ya know what I mean.”
 “I’ve been in yoga for over five years,” I say.  “I know exactly what you mean.”
He looks up at me.  “Nudity in the studio?”
He sounds a little hopeful, if you ask me.
“This Thursday, for sure.”
He stands, squares his shoulders a bit, frowns.  “Seriously?  There’s nude yoga?”
I shouldn’t play with him, the neophyte, but is it really “playing” when somewhere, surely, there is nude yoga this Thursday?
“It’s a spring thing,” I say casually.  “You know.  Some New Age thing, I’m sure.”
“Ah,” he nods.  “Sure,” he says.  “That makes sense.”
I grin.  “So you’ll be there Thursday?”
He drops back down into Downward Facing Dog.  “Yep,” he says, smiling at me.  “Just as soon as I get back from Chicago.”
I frown at him.  “When are you going to Chicago?”
He grins.  “I’m not, ya goofy woman.”