Marla has been having increasingly serious issues with her bone density, particularly with her hips. She needs to exercise, but her delicate body can only handle so much. I need to exercise, too, even though my body is dense and indelicate. One of us is a fat-ass and one of us is a brittle-ass and, either way, our asses needed to move. We need to be careful when we move. So...what?
And one day, it came to me. It came to me, and it was horrific because, suddenly, I knew the truth.
We needed to do yoga.
I have tried yoga a few times before and I hated it. I am not good at being peaceful and relaxed unless I am laying on a massage table. It is impossible for me to clear my mind. When I am in a quiet room, my first inclination is to start giggling. And I am not a touchy-feely-mother earth loves us kind of person. When the sun comes out, I don't offer it salutations; I use my coffee mug to shield my eyes from it while I frantically gulp. But I kept going back to fat and brittle and resigned myself to yoga.
I don't even own yoga clothes, so when we stepped into the room I was decked out in running gear (side note: I haven't gone running in a very, very long time). I eyed the piles of yoga stuff- mats, strappy things, block things and...wait. Blankets??? Maybe this wouldn't be so bad! I was just about to snag one in the hopes that maybe someone would just turn off the lights and let me nap when I noticed that nobody else had one.
I glanced around the room for the instructor and noted a cute guy at the front of the room. He had a beard (of course he had a beard) and was wearing baggy pants and a shirt. I was thinking that he was actually cute when he turned and I saw it.
A man bun.
That left me kind of alarmed, like I was in for some serious tree-hugging shit. But I had laid out my mat and blocky things and taken off my shoes (but kept my socks on) so there was no turning back. The class began, and the exercise in and of itself was okay. The class was for beginners so I was able to keep up well. But I had terrible acid reflux every time I had to bend down too far (fat girl problems) and I almost burst out laughing when Man Bun McCrunchy stopped to adjust the stance of a classmate and murmured "There....how's that feel?"
But that brief stifling of giggles aside, the class was going well. I was cold because I wasn't really working up a sweat, but my body felt pretty good. I was getting a good stretch in my legs and hips and even though my boobs are a little too big for yoga to be 100% comfortable, I was feeling good. We were on our mats in some kind of lay-out-on-the-floor pose when the woman next to me, somehow, touched my hand with her DAMNED FOOT AND OH MY GOD WHAT IN THE HELL and then everything went into Complete System Meltdown.
Remember earlier when I said I kept my socks on? That was partly because the room was cold but mainly because I hate feet. I hate feet. I don't like pedicures, I can't even deal with a foot rub. And above all else, I really just can not deal with other peoples feet. It's bad enough if Pete's toes creep over to my side of the bed and graze me in the middle of the night. Stranger feet?
So, I had Foot Contact and my poor little brain basically melted. Thankfully, there was only about ten minutes left in the class because I had completely lost my chill. Everything Man Bun said went in my ear and turned into some sort of innuendo an eight year old would come up with and I had to bite my lip to keep the laughter in. I was also keeping my limbs as close to my body as possible to avoid any further contact with my classmates, making it hard to "unfold and stand on the mountain" or whatever the instructor was talking about.
Clearly, yoga is not 100% for me. My body felt good after, even if my mind fell apart but that is, I'm pretty sure, the exact opposite of what yoga is supposed to do for you. Still, I'm going back to Man Bun's class next week and this time, I'll put lots of space between myself and the person next to me.