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.”

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.

Hot, Baby, Hot!

When I was a kid, I lived in fear of something:

Puking in the school cafeteria.

Y’all know what I’m talking about.

It happened to at least one unlucky soul every school year as long as I can remember.

It was the ultimate humiliation. 

I don’t remember much about grade school (besides Mrs. Mace who was 112 and still teaching 2nd grade) but I can conjure every puking incident that ever occurred.

To wit:  Winter 1968.  The cafeteria is jammed.  It’s hot because our coats are still on from recess.  We’re sweaty.  The kind of sweaty only a Midwestern kid swaddled in wool can understand. The hairnet–wearing lunch ladies dole out over-cooked food to an unfortunate few whose mothers either worked (what? worked???) or couldn’t be bothered to slap a hunk of bologna between two pieces of stale Wonder bread and stuff it in a bag.  The rest of us enjoy mom-made PBJs and slurp down white milk purchased with the 3 pennies taped to the lids of our metal lunchboxes.  Mine was plaid.  Yes.  I said plaid.  Not Brady Bunch, not Flipper…..plaid.  I fucking HATE plaid.  Go ahead and laugh, shitheads!  My mom was frugal and she probably got a really sweet deal on that beauty beaucause no other consumer on the planet would buy it.  Just like the army green parkas with fake fur collars she got for $15.95 that EVERYONE in our family wore including my grandfather. I think they’re still wrapped in plastic and occupy a remote corner of closet space in my childhood home.  As for the lunchox…well….I’m sure my dad dug it out of the trash after I attempted to wipe it from my memory when I entered middle school. It’s probably stuffed full of old shooting medals or spent shotgun shell cartridges.  I suspect I’ll run across it again some day.

Anyway…..Robbie M. (name has been changed to protect his dignity) had a caring mommy like mine who packed a wholesome meal every day in Robbie’s GI Joe lunchbox (it was not plaid).  That lunchbox will forever be etched in my memory because Robbie hurled into it with a vengeance like he’d been subjected to a diabolical tilt-a-whirl operator at the local fairgrounds.  Poor kid.  I still think about him from time to time and what caused him to hurl so violently.  If you asked me,  I think Robbie had a nasty ear infection because there’s only one thing that can produce a color that distinct: liquid erythromycin…cherry flavored..  Robbie’s mommy must have forgotten to pour the Cheerios that morning because you never give a kid liquid erythromycin on an empty stomach.  Just a word of advice for any of young parents out there who don’t want their kids to end up on Jerry Springer with some unresolved self-esteem issues when they’re pushing the big 5-0.

Meeeeemories…like the corners of my mind. Misty, water color…never mind.

I wish I had better grade school memories… like, oh, I don’t know….a teacher who tried to inspired me to become something or another?  A teacher so filled with a passion for learning that it motivates even the weakest link in the academic food chain?  The kind that accomplished people thank 30 years later when they’re receiving a profound award?

But no.

I only have memories of incidents involving other children that I prayed would never happen to me.  Kids can be so self-absorbed!

So why this particularly memory?

Hot yoga. 

Hot like an in-fucking-ferno yoga.

For those who have never experienced this unique form of fitness torture, imagine this:

A room full of profusely sweaty people with lots of tattoos smelling of curry twisting themselves into knotted, agonizing positions in a room heated to about 145 degrees with 40% humidity. 

And I PAID for this? 

Yes.

And during that first, brutal step toward fitness enlightenment, I had but one thought:

Do. Not. Vomit.