Thursday, February 18, 2010


Last night, when I turned up for my weekly yoga class, I was horror stricken to discover that my yoga boyfriend instructor was out and we would be having a substitute instructor.

The horrors!

I should be ashamed to admit that, while waiting for class to start, I really was sitting there debating just skipping it entirely. Because it was not going to be the same and, therefore, it just might not have been worth it to stick around.


That neurotic.

I did end up staying because, you know, I'd already been buck ass naked* in the locker room, so leaving now would be a little too close to blatant exhibitionism and, after all, this is my gym and not Folsom Street Fair.

Our substitute instructor reassured us that she's seen our regular intructor give classes a few times, so she knows what he covers and how his class goes.


Or not.

Let's back up for clarity's sake.

The class I take Wednesday nights is "Gentle Yoga". For beginners or those with limited mobility or fat chicks with short arms. You know.

I don't believe for a hot minute that the class she's watched our regular instructor give was "Gentle Yoga".


I got my ass handed to me in a dark room by a tiny woman in a camisole with an accent.

If I'd been capable at the time, my twitter stream would have been very colorful (mostly blue).

I was hot and sweaty and hurty and areyouserious?

But you know what else I was?

I was keeping up.

Yes, it hurt. Yes, I was literally dripping sweat. Yes, I was modifying some positions so that I could actually do them. Yes, I kind of wanted to flick her in the nose really hard.

But I did it. And I got through it and I didn't die or fall down.

When she put us in Downward-facing Dog and instructed us to point our "tushies shamelessly towards the ceiling" I did not squeal with hysterical, giddy laughter, even though I really wanted to (but probably couldn't have managed, anyway).

And finally we were in corpse pose and she got out a "very interesting" instrument** and played a song while we lay there in the dark, um, meditating. Yes, we can call it "meditating"***.

I left the gym tired and drained and kind of giddy and very, very thankful that our regular instructor is supposed to be back next week. Also? I'm pretty sure I could handle "Mixed Levels" yoga if I wanted to.

*The gym plays classic rock, and there was a song on as I was changing my clothes that I really liked and I had a hard time not dancing along as I was stripping. But I wasn't the only woman getting naked in the locker room and I figured that I'm already the weird one, and I probably didn't need to make it worse.

**No, I don't know what. I didn't peek and she didn't say.

***Yes, it was dirty and, no, I'm not telling you.

PS: I almost forgot the best part! While I was doing this whole routine, and my thighs were shaking I was just positive that there was no way they'd be letting me out of bed in the morning to go to the gym and do my weights routine, which still includes such horrors as lunges and squats. But when I woke up my thighs were fine. OK, they felt a little tired, but in a good way and not in a "sit your ass back down, fatty" kind of way. It was awesome!

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