I am in corpse pose.

Flat on my back, legs out, arms at my sides, because that’s how yoga class ends.

My mind is empty. Free of stress. Free of worry. Free of …

Wait, if I lie here too long the meter I fed 55 minutes ago will run out. Class was supposed to start at 7:15, but in the yoga world that means 7:25 or 7:30 or whenever the earth chakra aligns with the vapor of the sun.

Not that it matters. Only somebody hopelessly uptight would care about an $8 parking ticket while lying here attaining eternal bliss. Or is it $10 now? Maybe it’s gone up to $15.

Ommmm.

Acknowledge the thought, and let it go.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax.

Relax.

Relax, for goodness’ sake!

Maybe the eye pillow will help. It’s a pretty little beanbag thing we yoga types use to shut out the noisy, combative, unyielding world.

We, who practice this ancient form of movement and reflection to cleanse our bodies of detrimental toxins and pernicious thoughts.

We, who come to our mats with open hearts and willing souls, and, if we’re smart, a wallet full of quarters so that when the tattooed chick who leads class loses herself in some trippy time-space continuum, we don’t end up with a parking boot cleaved to our back tire.

It’s beautiful. So beautiful, to think that dozens of other yoga devotees, just like me, have placed this same little pillow over their brows, and moved their mellow, supple bodies over the very same rubber mat that I’m supine on now.

Their strong, able arms. Their pliant, sturdy backs. Their smelly, sweaty, bacteria-laden feet, that have been God-knows-where and tramped through God-knows-what.

Do they wash these things? With soap?

Inhale. Exhale. Float.

Under the benevolent sky, I am one with the universe. I am one with the esoteric sounds of the sitar music coming from the boom box in the corner. One with this endless Eastern ditty that seems to have no discernible musical structure whatsoever, and, frankly, is beginning to grate my nerves.

Would it be so wrong to ashtanga to a little Beyonce or Tim McGraw?

Refocus. Find stillness. Release.

Yoga can change your life. I was once a high-strung, competitive control freak. Now I keep my judgments to myself. (Although even Buddha would have to agree that the guy next to me should have his head examined if he thinks he can get away with those short shorts. At his age? Honestly.)

Finally, the teacher has struck the gong, which means we can reel our thoughts back from the cosmos, into our serene bodies.

Done. And done. Can we get a move on, here? I can hear the parking meter ticking past zero.

She tells us to find harmony. To carry this peace and tranquility with us into the world. I’m out the door.

Three whole seconds left on the meter!

Hands to the heart. Namaste.

– Tanya Barrientos is a columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Her e-mail address is tbarrientos@phillynews.com.