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Jack Bauer tortures people with this move
When I first walk in, I am met with a bunch of women doing stretches and poses as if they are preparing for a sex show in zero gravity with Prince and the Revolution. Or maybe that's just the way a man's eye reads things at first glance. The only 2 guys in the class are the destitute married guy who was dragged there against his own will by his wife, and me, the guy looking to try something new. Once every girl sees that I'm there solo and that I can barely touch my knees, they think I'm only present to continue my existence as a pervert. I didn't know they could read minds.
I now realize why everyone was battling to get into class earlier than I had. No one wants to be left with a wall spot. My mat is jammed into the corner of two walls like an "L" piece in Tetris. This leaves me a quarter of the amount of room one is supposed to have. The reason it took me so long to get into class in the first place is because I didn't realize I had to rent a mat. $25 for an overvalued stretching class in sweltering heat wasn't enough, I now have to rent musty equipment...to stretch. Fantastic.
Apparently everyone went out drinking the night before because most of the girls filing into class have a water bottle half the size of an NFL Gatorade water cooler. No normal person should need that much water for 60 minutes of stretching. And these savages at the front desk are charging $4 for water?! Is there a water embargo I was unaware of? Have we reached 'peak water'? It's fucking water! No thanks.
Prior to class starting, and apparently not realizing how mirrors work, my sure to be stealthy stare at a woman's breasts in the mirror are met with a "Dude!" look in her eyes after I had followed her boob reflection up the mirror to her face. Whoops. "If I can see you, you can't see me?" No, that's not it...Shit, I'm REALLY that guy now.
There is no activity that has quite the social gap as yoga. With no other exercise do you find yourself so often having no idea what you are doing. The instructor, who has a certain air about her, tells you that if you or any of the other social retards get tired or are unable to do a simple stretch, you can always be a whiny little bitch and return face down in shame to the child's pose. It is called as such because it is similar to how a three year old might lay if he were being a whiny little bitch.
My instructor barks out directions in a language analogous to jibberish and the rest of the class all understands her. I, on the other hand, am always a step behind finding my "inner harmony and balance", as she puts it, while in fact I am just trying to figure out what the fuck is going on from pose to pose. Those that have done Yoga before cast a downward eye at me with disdain and frustration as if I was having trouble with my motor skills.
The women have the flexibility of Gumby whereas I struggle with simply trying not to tear major muscle groups or rupture vital organs while trying to complete the stretch in its most basic form. I love it when the instructor comes over and tries to "deepen" my stretch, as she calls it. Ma'am, if I could go deeper, I would have gone deeper. Yanking on my hamstring like a pole vault is like expecting malleability from a lead pipe. Shit just ain't happening.
But the thing is, there is always someone worse than you (see: married guy in class against his own will). He is so unflexible that his form for two completely opposite poses has about as much immediate visible variation as 2 pictures in the photo match game. Always hunched over and in deep concentration and in no way close to mimicking the current pose, it's as if he was placing himself in the only position that will keep him from keeling over and dying.
Now as for this 'hot' part of yoga. Ask any respectable doctor and they will tell you that it is not smart to work out at the hottest point of the day; quite unhealthy, in fact. I think it goes without saying that one should also not workout in a climate akin to the surface of the planet, Mercury. Sweating out toxins is one thing, but inducing Ebola like tissue liquefaction and dysenterious bodily excretions is quite different, mind you.
20 minutes in, I have liquid dripping off me as I was just plucked out of stormy seas by the Coast Guard in a driving rain. All the women in the class don't seem to be equally laboring and have only begun to acquire curiously placed sweat spots in areas that only make me stare even more. Vagina sweat + grey pants = quite the unique site, let me tell you.
I am told to keep breathing through my nose but with the sweat in my eyes stinging like Cobra venom, it's hard to focus on breathing. When I CAN focus on inhalation, the air I breathe singes the nostrils like Sex Panther cologne. It is so hot that the hairs in my nose have been charred and are no longer acting as any type of filter. Every exhale looks like a barber wiped off the back of my neck in mid-haircut, except these look like burning embers. My lungs have the onset of first degree burns. A jaunt in the sauna would be a polar bear plunge compared to this. What in the Sam-hell am I doing here?
Yeah, it's like that
Ok, I just need to focus on this seemingly simple pose. God, why does this stretch offer me as much torment as a constipated fight on the toilet after a weekend of nothing but beer and hotdogs?! I am sweating, struggling and making faces like I was reaching for the ropes trying to break out of a figure four-leg lock.
Shit, I need some water! I'm disoriented. Did I mention how hot it is? I can't remember. It feels like I'm in a sealed glass box on the Shores of the Amazon River at high noon, in the middle of summer�during an abnormally hot year. I paid money for this? Death can't be far.
And then suddenly when I think I have reached my low point, I descend even lower. My body decides it was time to shoot across my bow of sanity. Without warning or prodding, I simply well up and I whimper. It was practically inaudible, a man's whimper if you will, but it didn't matter how I rationalized it, I whimpered. It's just what my body felt like it needed to do to get me to stop. If anyone had seen me at that moment, my trembling, pre-crying face would have given gave it away that I was not cut out for this. I was broken and I knew it. That Hare Krishna guy can go fuck himself by the way.
But just when I think that the gods were truly out to get me, something magical unexpectedly happens. You see, as I am hiding my tears, struggling to bend over with my legs spread, hamstrings wound up like Naomi Campbell locked in a room with no cocaine and an endless ringing cell phone, I look up. And as I do, the woman in front of me is so close to me and is bent over so far forward in her stretchy pants that her labia majora is practically straddling the bridge of my nose like it is a Breathe-Rite strip. I can see it. I shit you not! I'll never forget that and had no idea how to thank her for not wearing underwear that day. (Side note: women know exactly what they are doing when they get dressed. Their annoyed reactions to gawking men is all a show. They have tits and legs, and they love it. "Ma'am I am only starting because one of your areolas is resting on my arm. Why don't you put at least a sticker on?")
That almost vagina mask gives me a burst of energy for one second, but it doesn't last. Fuck, I'm dizzy. My lungs now have second degree burns and must resemble those of the Marlboro Man before he died. People have started to move away from me because the sweat that has seeped out of my waterlogged mat looks like a moat. Every time I adjust my weight on my mat it makes that squeaky sound that sopping wet running shoes make. $4 water sounds like quite the deal of the century at the moment, wouldn't you know?
I can't remember when it happened exactly but that's precisely what "black out" means; you forget shit, chronologically. But when I come to, I am lying on my back and I feel a bit like Tom Hanks' character in Cast Away must have felt on that busted up raft before he was rescued. Heat exhaustion settling in, bewildered, confused, and wanting it all to end -- one way or the other. "Wilson!" I startle everyone around me. Sorry, I'm suffering dementia. Don't mind me.
As the class is finishing up, most people bounce up for the final pose with some pep in their step while I flail about like that guy convulsing in the Gatorade commercial who collapses right before the end of the Iron Man.
My body is going into survival mode, deciding whether or not my brain is allowed to ever make any more decisions concerning the betterment of the DNA it carried.
Where the fuck am I?
Following class and after managing to assemble my lifeless corpse and exit the premises, reality seemed to come at me awfully slow. My reaction time was like a sloth, high on marijuana. Cars driving by startled me. I was quiet and felt like I had just been released from a penitentiary unable to reacclimate with society like Brooks in "The Shawshank Redemption" I roamed the streets for a while, kicking rocks. I wanted to cry. I balled up in Child's Pose.
As I lay there on that filthy sidewalk with people dropping coins next to me as they walk by, I realize that I think I will stick with basketball and running from here on out. I really don't need to try something new ever again. I don't care what's on the other side of the leaf. Touching my toes just isn't worth almost dying for.
this was an enjoyable read. And it kept us from hitting 2000 on the other thread. However, the new article did distract from the fish pic, so I'm on the fence.
Women of america: do hot yoga. You will lose weight due to the room being hot, and you will gain flexibility resulting in being a better fuck. Win-win.
CJ, are there going to be any pornstars in your "current" bracket? That would be great.
Men of america: run, play a sport and be active, lift weights. Our country is way too fucking fat.
Posts: 5386 Rank: 1 Joined:
12/7/2006
Location:
Philadelphia, PA
Posted: 8/11/2008 1:34:58 PM
Good. thank you. I thought it was really clever and funny. I am really getting into yoga. it really is relaxing. Of course, I'm doing it on Wii fit, but still.
Yes balls, please bring your story over here. I love it. I will continue mine as well.
So...I keep harrassing my lover to cum over. I go upstairs and put on my lingerie. I went with the black see through polka dot thing with the hot pink lacey boy shorts. I also wore my candy pink high heels for added effect.
now because its really hard for me to be serious...ever. I had a gimmick all planned.
Bailey bought this human body thing that has all organs and intestines that come out and you can learn how the human body operates.
I arranged my self onto the coffee table, which I pledged right before so that was not the smartest idea. I was slipping all over and I smelled like lemons.
I hid the body behind me. So when he walked in, I had candles lit and the lights on pretty dim.
I said in a sultry voice, "wanna touch my body?" and he said, "oh my god" and he practically ran to the table. But before he got there, I pulled out the fake body and said, "here it is, lets play".
So of course I think I'm hysterical and I started laughing.
Posts: 2563 Rank: 2 Joined:
12/7/2006
Location:
Seattle, WA
Posted: 8/11/2008 1:51:50 PM
Is it Christmas?
Holy shit – was that a good UFC car or what?
Scarlett. She’s built like the Temple of Fuck.
It’s 2008 & I just got text messaging. I was kinda excited at first. Then I realized I just gave my girlfriend an electronic leash.
But, dating a chick who is a former yoga instructor is 7 shades of awesome. I’ve gotta work on my endurance, but we are gonna knock like half of the kama sutra out by the end of the month.
I agree. L does hot Yoga. Tried to get me to go once, but I think it was just to show off how much shit she could do that I could not.
Anyway, from the way her and her friends talk about any of the "sensitive pony-tail men" that take the class... I don't think any girl has respect for Yoga men
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