Na-Ma-Stay-Your-Ass-On-the-Floor

Yoga is officially a "thing" now. Like self-serve frozen yogurt. Or Crocs. Or anal bleaching. I suppose it's not for everyone but I'll tell you what. EVERYONE makes you feel like you are the leper of society if you aren't doing it.
Everyone: "Oh my God you SOOOO have to try yoga, girl! It will change your life!"
Me (silently): ["Shut up, you granola-munching hipster...."]
Everyone: "Yoga will TOTALLY bring peace to your heart. You need it with all you've been through!"
Me (again silently): ["I will find you when you are putting your $14 organic Whole Foods mushrooms into the back of your Range Rover some night and bludgeon you with a jar of Nutella."]
Everyone: "Only the lepers of our society don't do yoga!"
Me (grrrrrrrrr....): ["Fine. I wouldn't want to be a leper. Or a camel-toe sporting sweat machine in those ridiculous yoga short/panties..."]

I tried a yoga class once. It was probably ten years ago at my mega-gym. The instructor was a sprightly young man with ripped arms and legs who was probably all of 20 years old. I think he was wearing a cloth diaper that smelled like patchouli. I believe he might have just completed a hemp milk enema cleanse before teaching because he was WAY too fucking excited and seemed to be weightless as he balanced on one hand with his legs wrapped like a jacked up pretzel. ONE FUCKING HAND!!!!!!!! He encouraged breathing and peaceful tranquil minds but all I could think of was "This is motherfuckingimpossible and I think I'm going to cry." So I cried. And was mortified that I could not do "crow". I was the only one who thought this pose was impossible. The entire class rested their knees on the outside of their elbows and just popped their feet off the ground like it was a stroll in the park. Not me. I was a squatting liability as my wrists buckled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. I never went back.

But yet here I am many years later, a week into yoga classes and I haven’t quit. I still completely suck and fall out of everything with the grace of a drunk on rollerblades. I am a ballet teacher for God’s sake. I have a decent amount of balance engrained in me. Apparently when you take yoga, you throw all that shit out the door. You are basically going to have to start the hell over, like you are learning to walk. 

As a newbie to anything I am not 100% sure of that requires trying to be calm as my muscles are stretch-raped, I prefer to stand in the back. This will assure a few things. First of all, the restroom is right there. If I need refuge because I am going to vomit, shit my pants, cry, or simply run away from the instructor, I’ve got my out. Secondly, I have no idea what in holy hell most of these moves are based on their yoga names. Front Row Girls (FRG’s) know what’s up. As I wander sheepishly to the back some are chilling out in handstands and headstands in silence. Even if I decided I really, REALLY love yoga and start hemp enema cleanse club, I cannot fathom just hanging out in inverted vagina camel or whatever it’s called just for fun. Nope.

My favorite cursing dance mom bestie, Tiffany, and I talk in regular voices which is an understood evil in the yoga studio. (After I week we UNDERSTAND, we just choose to talk.) If you can’t chill on your head you are supposed to sit or lie down and I guess focus on your breathing.  Oh and NOT TALK. And let’s talk about that breathing for a second, can we? When you deeply inhale and exhale I don’t find any reason to make extra noise. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was on a whale watching tour with all the vibrating, humming, Orca noises emanating from the moist sweat cave. Shut. Up. Do I see a doula in here massaging your taint so you don't tear when you deliver your baby right here at the yoga studio? No??? Zip it, Sea World.

This is not hot yoga, as Bikram junkies will tell you. I have so far not tempted this discipline. The only thing I do at 105 degrees is get Ebola and die. But my class IS hot. It's 90 degrees and when you are even merely sitting in the Amazon jungle humidity, you will sweat your tits off. There is steam coming from a little vaporizer in the back. There is steam coming off of the downward dogging participants. The little foam blocks they give you for remedial yoga newbies who can't balance or touch their toes are made of semi-molten lava. Within 10 minutes I am glistening like I was dipped in a vat of Land O Lakes. It is impossible for me to just grab my ankle as I'm upside down on one leg and it keeps slipping from my greasy fingers like the last chicken wing from a fat person under the couch. I'm sure if someone took a video of this part of the yoga train wreck it would have gone viral on YouTube by now. Though I've brought a full-length mat towel with gripping koom-ba-ya design painted on, my sweaty hog stubs keep slipping like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the end of class the entire room is dripping wet like a gas station bathroom minus the used condoms on the floor.

Yoga music is kind of like spa massage meets Kidz Bop Enya. Kind of tranquil, super hippie, mostly making me show my "What is THIS shit??" face every time a new song begins. Because of the no-talking and the quiet moments we are all supposed to be savoring in our bodies and minds, all other noises are magnified. Farting is totally acceptable in there. You release that ass bomb while you moan out that exhale, Orgasma Queen of the Savsana!!! I refuse to go there. Ever since I received my EQV (Excessive Queef Violation) back in Pilates in 2004, I tend to be an ass clencher. Not a peep from me below the waist, I can promise you that.

Our instructor the other day had us transitioning between movements so fast that between me trying to read my Rosetta Stone Yoga Lingo for Dummies while wiping the pouring sweat from my eyes, I realized we were now facing backwards. Fuck. Now I was an FRG. What an uninspiring view those head standing fart machines had now. I'm sure it was like being the sober one at a party and watching the wasted ones stumble and slur. I wanted to just lie there but the pressure was on.

And just like that, there it was....My nemesis. That God damn CROW. Mentally I was trying not to have PTSD flashbacks to One-Handed Diaper Boy and that day in class so many years ago. Breathe...breathe... I was not going to be self defeated. I would balance up there even if for a mere second! Or..... I was going to totally over tilt forward, twist my wrist, slam my knee on the ground, and almost hit my head.
"You cannot succeed unless you sometimes fall a few times."
The Jedi master was trying to lighten my load of shame. And how heavy it was....

Someday I WILL be able to crow the HELL out of myself. I will be able to stand on one leg and not keel over like someone stole my walker. I will be able to say "Namaste" at the end of class and not feel like a complete fraud. I will be able to do the backbend wheel without feeling like my implants are going to shoot out and knock that humidifier over. I just might even want to consider being a Front Row Girl. But don't expect to see this top-heavy blond in a headstand. I can only clench so much before my butter sweat hemp milk enema queef gets me arrested.