A Hate-Hate Relationship

There are times when one just has to tell the truth.

And, of course, times one has to lie.

Like that time I went out of town on that completely bogus “business trip” in ’89 and….oh, never mind because this isn’t one of those times.

This time it’s about truth.

And the truth in this case is agonizing because I feel profound guilt for feeling this way and I don’t know why because feeling guilty in this case makes no sense.  It’s one of those useless internal struggles that doesn’t involve anyone but me and therefore should not officially count as guilt because guilt, in my opinion involves other humans.   Like bullshitting your way out of something you never wanted to go to in the first place or blatantly lying when attempting to save your own ass if the consequence is making someone else feel shitty or insecure.

For example:

“I reeeeally wish I could make it over tonight.  Bunco sounds like such a fun game but I fear my strep throat may turn into a flesh eating virus if I don’t take it easy.”


“I don’t care what anybody said, I was wearing my wedding ring the whole night!”

(Disclaimer:  The above references are completely made up.  I have never, I repeat NEVER, used them myself even in an attempt to a) get out of Bunco or b) prevent a nasty domestic dispute….at least not verbatim.)

Regardless….I am a tortured soul. (Maybe I should go write a song for Eddie Vedder).

And my tormentor?

Hot yoga.

I hate it.

With every fiber of my sweat-soaked being I hate it.

I had to get that out. 

It was eating me alive!

I just hope that dissing yoga doesn’t come with some sort of unpleasant next-life consequence because god knows I’ve prodded the karma gods more times than I want to admit and don’t need the publicity and for sure don’t want to come back as a pathetic contestant on Rock of Love or Dance Your Ass Off.

Perhaps I’m confusing guilt with fear.

Whatever it is, the truth remains the same.

Hot yoga is 90 minutes of hell. 

Or maybe just a glimpse of hell.

In fact, I’m beginning to think it actually IS a Hell Orientation.  Like one of those time-share things. You get a preview of what you’re getting in to if you just take the tour.

“…and with your Hell package, you can get your choice of around-the-clock, red-hot, humanity-packed group classes OR the oh-so-special private Yogi instruction where you’ll be taunted and chastised for wearing cotton or staking out a place by the door.  Please see one of our Hell Specialists about discounted rates for liars, adulterers and other profound sinners!  Namaste!”

Hmmmm…..I always thought cotton was the fabric of our lives and being by the door has benefits, I can tell you that.  Sometimes those Hell Specialists forget to put a rolled up towel under it and there’s this tiiiiiny little space that allows for an occasional wisp of cool air from the outside world to seep in and give me hope that I won’t perish.

It’s the little things that keep me going.

I’ll bet Eddie does hot yoga.

When Blogs Go Dark

Like this one has.

The reasons are too numerous to mention why this blogger has taken a powder so I’ll spare you the details even though I really, really want to whine and feel sorry for myself and gnash my teeth and maybe even cry but what’s the point?  Sometimes life just kicks your ass for shits and grins and leaves you wondering why being a human is so darn hard.  Then, somebody really wise reminds me in a gentle way to just shut my fucking pie hole and cut the irritating girlie shit and grow some balls.  That person must do a lot of yoga, huh?

Then again, I could just say I had blogger’s block….which is a really lame excuse.  I mean, one  can actually use  blogger’s block as fodder for a blog post.  In fact, I think I may have already used my “get outta blogger jail  free card” by writing about blogger’s block in a previous post.   If not, I hereby reserve the right to use it at a later time.  It has no expiration date and won’t go all green and fuzzy like the fruit in my fridge that I buy out of nutritional guilt and allow to slowly rot away  in specially designed  bins  that are supposed to keep  fruit from rotting away.  Guess I forgot to read the manual.  I need to just ‘fess up that I’m not a big fruit eater.  All I can say to that is, I hope I don’t get scurvy like those unfortunate pirates and sailors of old.   Well, the pirates probably deserved it so I don’t feel bad about them.  The sailors, on the other hand, may deserve some sympathy, I supposed.  Unless, of course, they were part of some  expedition hell-bent on discovering new lands and exterminating indigenous people in the name of the Catholic church.  

Back to the subject of my fridge….I think it has actually become some sort of portal into the future.  It’s subtle. I can’t quite put my finger on it.   I’m discovering things I can’t remember purchasing.  Like products that claim “extra fiber” or “added calcium”.    Hmmm. 

Am I overreacting?  Becuase, I often overreact.

It’s just that I don’t want irregularity or osteoporosis and I think my fridge is trying to tell me something. 

To be on the safe side, I think I’ll listen.  I’m going to choke down that English muffin with extra fiber if it kills me.  Although I’ll probably slather on a giant slab of butter to make it go down easier but that shouldn’t affect me one way or another, right?

I must sigh off.   I just got an inexplicable  hankerin’ for a tall, frosty glass of prune juice.   Ahhhhhh!

My New Hobby


The self-inflicted variety, to be exact.

It’s free, doesn’t require a glue gun and  you can take it with you everywhere you go without incurring one of those annoying over-limit baggage fees.

And no one  knows you’re practicing it unless I ramble on about it on my blog or it comes raging to the surface in the form of hives or shingles or some other dreadful skin disorder that gives it away.   To avoid this, one must perfect the art of what I like to call “emotional subterfuge”.  And that means establishing a manageable balance between guilt and it’s evil twin, angst, so you can remain enviably cool on the surface while keeping your internal Vesuvius from erupting into a full-blown external meltdown.

Let’s say, hypothetically, you go to your local Spin class with a non-biodegradable plastic bottle of water.   You sweat off 20 pounds.  You chug your Fiji water (it has the most desirable pH balance, you know).   Ahhhhh.  That’s good stuff, right?  But then you look around.  Your spinmates are staring you down as they hold up  their environmentally friendly, stainless steel water bottles filled with Brita-filtered tap water.   Panic sets in and your inside freeze up.  To make matters worse there is not a recycle bin in sight.   And then….the questions:


Don’t you have a SIGG bottle?


Uh..no.  I just have Fiji water…in a bottle.  A recycleable plastic bottle.

I suddenly feel ashamed, like I’ve I committed a grevious act (guilt).  I feel an overwhelming dread (angst).   Breathe, relax, find your balance, I tell myself.  Take a deep breath in, hold for 4 seconds then let it out, hold for 4 seconds (I learned this on Good Morning America.  It wards off panic attacks).


But don’t worry.  I recycle.  I’ll just take it home and put it in my bin.

I toss the empty bottle into my giant leather tote bag that was most likely chrome-tanned and the run off from the tanning factory has probably contaminated some town’s water supply.

The spinners stare at me.  Is it because of my plastic bottle, my leather bag or do they just dig my work-out gear?  I don’t know.  Holy shit, I…do…not….know.  


Uh….my recycled bottle will probably have a second life as one of those plush toys they make from recycled plastic.  You know, the ones they sell at Whole Foods?

But this is all hypothetical and meant to be funny. I have a great sense of humor.  Really.  I laugh ALL THE TIME.   And besides, the Real Me would never be that hard on the Real Me.  That’s right.  Just all good fun that must come to end. 

So I’m off to make some long neglected phone calls and catch up on some schoolwork.  I feel bad that I’ve been remiss.  Really bad.  Like I-may-lose-sleep bad.   What might people be thinking of me right now?  I feel bad because I may have made others feel bad or neglected.

My dogs are staring at me.  They each hold  a side of a Frisbee in their clenched jaws.  They want to play and I don’t have time.

I feel bad about that.

I think I’ll take up needlepoint.