(joke totally stolen from my boyfriend)
I’m not sure how I did this, but I went to the seven o’ clock class this morning.
That’s seven in the morning, folks. B.C. Before coffee.
If I take the 9:30 class then I’m not really showered until lunch and then there’s lunch, which isn’t fun to eat right after the class, and somehow I don’t get started with my day until close to one and I end up working too late into the night. If I take the 11:00 class it’s even worse. And my “Ten-dollars-for-ten-days” thing is quickly running out so I have to take as many classes as I can now, since I won’t be able to afford taking it ever again.
So. Seven in the morning.
It was one of the best yoga classes I’ve ever taken. I don’t know if it was because it was so early that I wasn’t awake enough to know that I didn’t really want to be there. But I made it through the entire class without once thinking I was going to die. I even relaxed and had a good time. Things felt good instead of like torture.
I even did the camel pose just like the picture, with my palms flat on the backs of my feet, not just straining towards my heels. Normally my arms flail around this way and that, whacking the heads of other students. This was an exceptional class for me.
There were only about seven of us in there and we all got attention and encouragment. The class wasn’t too hot or stinky because it was the first class of the day. I could see myself in all three of the mirrors in the room.
I like to work in the back of the room because this class has an extended bow pose — the one where you’re on your stomach, grabbing your ankles from behind and kicking, so you look like a tiny sailboat. I find the bow pose to be a little, “And… MY CROTCH!” If I looked like all of the tiny girls in class that wear little boy briefs while they bend and twist, maybe I would be proud to offer my rump and crotch like a tiny yoga flower, but I opt for a little more modesty.
So since I tend towards the back of the room, there’s always someone who decides to sit right in front of me, blocking my view in the mirror. Then instead of being able to check my alignment, I just have to watch this other person’s ass for ninety minutes, thinking about how much I either do or don’t want to look like this other person, comparing my stretches to this other person’s stretches, judging her sportswear, judging his haircut, thinking about the time, counting down the minutes until I leave. If my view is blocked it’s hard to concentrate on what I’m doing, as I can’t see what I’m doing. You understand. So, people who love to sit in the front so they can see the mirror without anyone else getting in the way? Check out who’s behind you before you plop down and suck from your water bottle. We worked really hard to get that perfect modesty corner. We’ve got our mat the way we like it and our towel in the right place. We even hid our keys and wallet in a place that won’t get in anyone’s way. Your selfishness is breaking our Zen, man.
I’m not kidding in the slightest when I tell you this: today the instructor was explaining the tree pose, and when she stretched upright the pole in the middle of the room blocked my view. And when it did that, she disappeared behind the pole. Behind a support beam. My instructor was the size of a support beam. All you could see was a kneecap and a ponytail.
Afterwards she told me I did well today and asked if I’d taken yoga before, as she knew this was my third class at this studio. I said, “Yeah. Since college.” Then she squinted at me. Now, I don’t know if she was trying to determine if college was yesterday or a long time ago, or if she was like, “Girl, then you should be much more bendy.” But she took the nice route and said, “You can tell you’ve done this before.”
That’s like when I go to a show and I don’t like the performance, but I have to think of something nice to say so I go, “How much do you rock?” I offer you that today as my gift to you. When you have to come up with something good about what you just sat through and there’s nothing, nothing, nothing, offer it back up as a question. “Did you have fun?” “How awesome are you?” “Can you believe what you just did?” Then they get to start talking about how much they either liked or (usually) hated what you just saw and then you can decide whether or not the truth is appropriate.
It may be my birthday week, but today I give you a gift.
(And I may talk a good game here, but right when I got up to pour myself a cup of coffee, my back spasmed and I fell right to the floor, moaning and wailing, my hand on my lower back. I’m okay, but at least my humble nature has once again been restored. Back to the modesty corner for me. Two more days of Bikram before I’m back to Inhale on the Oxygen network like a good little shy bendy thing.)
After spending all of yesterday trying to make things work, I think this website might be working again. I’m getting mail. Some of you can see the site again. Yay. Hi. Welcome back.
Sex and the City. What? Okay. I was at a book fair. The book was twelve cents. Twelve. I hadn’t ever read it, and you know, it made a tv show I like. So I spent twelve cents. You know what was sitting next to it? Call Me Crazy. It was like I was supposed to pick it up and spend twelve cents on it. And after thirty minutes I’m already halfway through. It may be a page turner, but after each page I feel completely empty. I’m turning the pages to finish the book, not because I want to know what’s going to happen. Because nothing’s happening. It’s almost like reading a Larry King article. Nothing seems to go together. And maybe it’s from watching the show, but every essay seems really dated now. Oh. “Dated.” I guess… pun intended.
Pretending the Bed is a Raft. They’re good short stories, but every one is like, “Mama’s upset. And Daddy’s not coming around. Mama’s upset because Daddy’s not coming around. I must make Daddy love me. Or that man. That man doesn’t love that woman. That woman doesn’t love that man.” But every story had the same voice, even though the characters were supposed to change.
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