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.”

Or:

“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.