Below you'll find a joyful 'reneg' of my desperate cry for help.
On Friday afternoon I ventured 7 minutes down the street for round two of hot yoga (or, as I belatedly noted it's official name) the 'hot yoga challenge' (no kidding). With the agonies of my previous class not far from mind I approached round 2 with a new, dual-faceted strategy.
1. The shorts. I could not return in pajama shorts. This I knew for certain. Fortunately, on Wednesday, my aunt/(fairy)godmother came to visit with my uncle and cousins. I met them at the Eaton's Centre for some shopping and wound up being gifted with some lululemons. (I know, life is tough.) Thank you again Auntie Jo & to Hilary for picking them out.
2. Timing. I could not return to an evening class where a) ex-cheerleader could be the instructor and b) it would again be packed. Friday at 2 pm, I thought, would be perfect. It's population would not only be small, but a collection of hapless people (like myself) with nowhere else to go during the work day.
I arrived at the studio feeling confident (and limber) in my new spandex. I was met by a small (humble) foreign man (Eastern European?) who spoke in quiet tones (presumably my instructor.) Shortly afterwards, while sitting quietly in the changeroom, twiddling my thumbs to avoid the sauna until absolutely necessary, I became acquainted with one of my new peers.
It was she who broke the silence. I was relieved. Look at me! I was making a friend.
"You know I was at yesterday's class," she said, "and I didn't realize just how hot it was until I put my stuff back on today and it was still wet."
I silently wished she'd never spoken. I'd imagined a beautiful friendship between us. But alas - it could never be. Who gets back into wet, sweaty work out gear? Who? Who?
"Oh," I smile nervously, "yeah...110 degrees I hear. Pretty hot." I give her another chance to bond and proceed to tell her about the 'do whatever feels good type' yoga I came from.
"Ha. Sounds like yoga for pussies," she says.
Okay. It's on.
Once inside, I made sure to lay out my mat next to hers.
|What was going on in my head for the rest of my weekend.|
When I had a job to go to everyday, I woke up a good hour before musician boyfriend. So for an hour I would be pacing the apartment, making breakfast, showering, coiffing, while musician boyfriend stayed snugly in bed. Every time I stole a jealous glance into the bedroom, however, I had to smile, because every single time he'd be sprawled in a completely different position. I could grab something from the washroom and look in two seconds later and there he'd be, upside down.
It was a great morning game for myself. I've missed it since I stopped going to work.
Anyway, my reason for sharing this with you is that every time I craned my neck to steal a glance at speedo-clad Martin Short yogi, perched on the instructors mount, he was in a different position. The game was back on!
It didn't matter how long or short a time I'd be stuck staring at my navel or with my cheek against the floor. Whenever I looked up, there he was. Somewhere different. He'd be lounging on his side. Sitting up with one leg crossed over the other. Standing and leaning against a rail. All the while lazily spewing out instructions and explanations and philosophical words of encouragement.
But that's still not even the best part.
In between his stream of instructions Martin Short Yogi threw in completely random words. Like "louisana lasagna." And "Vatican Fall of Rome." And "South Korea." As in, "We now do position for second time south korea shoulders back chest up head back breathe in hands in prayer fingers crossed louisana lasagna reach sideways."
Why do people ever write fiction? Why am I?
And to add further to my obvious, incredulous enjoyment, Martin Short yogi proceeded to critique every move of my un-laundered neighbour. At one point (the highlight of my class) he even said, "like she's trying to do" and pointed to me. ME. Yes, he said trying. But still. I was the example.
Who are you calling a pussy now? Hmm?
Upon exiting the studio I found myself riding the elevator with the only young male from class (not a hippie with a boner - I checked). As soon as I looked at him he burst into maniacal laughter and started tracing the 'swirlies' etched into the metal elevator door. He said something about how great it was to be a kid again (I'm assuming it was the heat?). I nodded in agreement. Then he erupted into crazed giggles once more, the doors opened, and we parted ways.
I have to say...I like these weirdos.
I'll be back next Friday at 2 pm.