I do yoga. And here’s the thing…I’m pretty good at it and really love it.
This is coming from a woman who willed herself to have a menstrual period for 4 straight years to avoid playing volleyball in high school gym (and the coach let me get away with it because I sucked that much and I might hurt someone.) The woman who, as a child, only looked forward to Track Day at Del City Elementary because, hello, PICNIC! The woman who refuses to sweat in any situation where a happy ending is not possible. Who can’t run 10 feet without tripping over something. Or knocking out my own front teeth with my epic knockers.
My general opinion of any sport/physical activity is pretty congruent with George Carlin…..
IT’S NOT A SPORT.
So, I really don’t give a crap about being physically fit, per se. What I lack in strength and coordination and any real concern about my physical well being, I make up for with crazy flexibility I do yoga for depression and anxiety issues, because it is better than drugs, and it may well be the only thing that stands between me and smacking some asshat with a shovel. Huge stress buster, HUGE. On Monday and Thursday evenings, my brain turns to TV static for about 45 minutes, and I feel awesome. (As my buddy Cindy points out, “Yeah, right. Because standing on your head in the dark to flute music solves everything”.)
So, okay, I like my yoga class, lots and lots. Good group of various people, good instructors, no competitive sweating, nothing is in Sanskrit, the room temperature is just precisely that, and NOT the surface of the sun. The regular instructor is on vacation….
Last Thursday, the instructor was actually great. I initially judged her based on her appearance….skinny, muscles, probably vegan…and I was wrong. She rocked. Last night, however….
First…the bitch was 10 minutes late. Unacceptable. Because I am never late. Ever.
Okay, fine, whatever. But my inner peace is entirely contingent upon the room already being dark and Enya is already playing when I enter the room, dammit. So, yeah, I am already getting my anticipatory mellow harshed on.
Then, she shows up. And she’s about sixteen, spray tanned, and wearing itsy bitsy shorts that have PINK splashed across her ass. Plus, let’s just say, Lower Plank will NEVER happen here, because the implants will rupture. Of all the nights for no guys to be in the class, because….
I reminded myself to withhold judgment….how would I feel if someone judged my own, very cute teenaged daughter like this?
That didn’t last very long.
So, after she BOTHERS to show up, she then spends another 10 minutes trying to hook up her iPod. All the while, giggling and using the one thing that will make me automatically loathe you…UP SPEAK. (Where everything? Ends like a question? Even when it’s not a question? Or a complete sentence? Even young professional women do this?)
“I’m like, sorry? Um, okay, everyone like, just lie on your mats and like breathe?”
I look down at her feet, and she’s wearing those absurd disposable flip flops…because she just got her feet done. MY inner peace was less important than her pedicure!?
Finally, she starts the class. And instead of the bored up speak….she is barking out poses like it’s cheer camp. Any second now, it was gonna be…”READY!! OKAY!!” What the fuck!?
I want to say they looked EXACTLY like this? But Google? Didn’t have a picture of feet that were spray tanned orange? With neon green polish? And it’s rude? To take cell phone pictures? In a yoga class?
The toes…oh my word…they were short, all the same length of short, and clubbed. Paddle-like. It kind of freaked me out. Even as a medical professional. Then, all I could think about was, “Who was the poor soul would had to touch her feet???”
About that time, I noticed that whatever half assed yoga-cheer thing she was doing was annoying everyone in the class, and so, I feigned nausea, scooped up the mat, and made a run for it.
I don’t know. I just don’t know. Maybe these would help her.
PS…I did notice yesterday that, Bohemian Okie Nerd Goddess spells out B.O.N.G.
I did not think this through.