I do yoga. There. I said it out loud. See, the thing is, I wouldn’t go to yoga if I could help it. If I could find another way to eliminate the chronic pain in my neck and shoulders, help my lower back stay put and keep my IT band from acting like a napless three year old leaving a candy shop empty handed, I would do that instead. But since I haven’t and I can’t seem to find a long lost relative who wants to die and leave me enough dough to keep a deep tissue masseuse on staff, I am afraid that I have to be one of those girls who, gulp, does yoga. While I love what yoga does for my body, I have to confess that I am an “Ohm Free Zone.” I know that the practice is all about love and acceptance and focusing in and all of that bullshit, but I. AM. NOT. So here goes. . . .
Confession — Since we’re friends, I think that I can safely share this terrible yoga simile that occurred to me during my last Savasana. I feel like a great power yoga class is just like taking a great big crap. Before, I feel anxious, nervous, pressured maybe? I race around to get ready, making sure that I have all of the requisite supplies. The actual process is grueling, smelly, harrowing work, in the end though, I feel lighter, relaxed, relieved–ready to take on the day.
Confession—I am totally judging everyone’s outfit while I am supposed to be meditating.
• Excuse me, Miss? Your tramp stamp clashes with the screen printed words on the ass of your sweats.
• Ma’am? Bras are recommended. Really. Get one.
• Sir. I can’t warrior two while watching the sweat roll off your back and divide your back hair tufts into islands in the Great Mole-Back Plains. Shirts. Have some.
• Oh Honey! That is a fungus. Paint those toenails or you will never get bun man to third base.
Confession—While watching a particularly gifted (and, ridiculously pretty and nice and NOT as sweaty as me) bitch in my class effortlessly transition from a bound extended side angle pose to a Bird of Paradise without a grimace, I had the following thoughts in succession while stumbling around on my mat with one leg wrapped awkwardly in my crotch and the other in a crude imitation of the chicken wing my older brother used to extort my Halloween Candy:
A. Hmmph. No boobs. I knew it. She couldn’t do that if she had boobs.
B. Boobs are much better than balance.
C. Laser eyes, Pam. Use your Laser Eyes. You can knock her over with your thoughts. . . .
D. I wonder where she bought those pants?
Confession—I never “forget” to take my watch off. I bring my watch in and set it on the floor in front of me so that I can keep a running time schedule of how long it takes before I can see ass crack sweat on the pants of hippie jackasses who think that it is appropriate to wear cotton pants to yoga. Yeah, bun wearing patchouli hempsters, I can see your ball sweat. And it’s gross. You’re gross.
Question—why do old men act like yoga=tantric sex?! Honestly. You’re in a class of forty other people (women and normal guys) and you are MOANING. Out loud. Get your shit together you crazy old fart. Yeah, we get it. It feels good. Channel your noises ANYWHERE else, please. You are harshing my zen.
Confession—One of the teachers at the studio gives a holiday class that is so difficult, you could forgive yourself for any number of whole pies or bottles of wine you consume for the rest of the day. It’s divine. I spend exactly as much energy enjoying the class and the burn as I do watching. . . and waiting. . . for the first newbie to leave. Now, I do this for two reasons. The first, of course, is that I like to think, “You see? You had no business crowding your lame ass into this packed studio wearing an outfit that coordinates with your yoga mat. Holiday classes are for die hards, punk!” The second reason is, of course, that when a quitter leaves, they open the door and a sip of cool air wafts over and I think, with relief, “Oh, thank shit. I might not die.”
Confession—One day when all of the water bottles in my house were—1. In my son’s room (I don’t know either, that’s what the sanitary cycle on the dishwasher is for), 2. Rolling around on the floor of my car (don’t judge me) or 3. Dirty, I considered filling an empty wine bottle from the counter with water for a hot yoga class. Further Confession—I was actually only deterred when I realized that driving home from yoga while guzzling from a wine bottle that I was keeping in the car cup holder might be frowned upon by law enforcement and I am no longer young enough or cute enough to talk my way out of a ticket.