I’m not a cool yoga chick, a.k.a. CYC. You know, the kind you see wandering into a locally-owned coffee shop (CYCs don’t support corporations and, thus, boycott Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts) still wearing her yoga pants and skin tight tank top, her hair swept up into an untidy knot on top of her head that that looks so fabulous, Gwyneth Paltrow will sport the exact same do next week on the red carpet. A single bead of
sweat perspiration rests on her forehead like a diamond bindi – sweat perspiration that says, “I’m a healthy, centered individual and so confident that my armpits don’t dare stink until I give them permission.” The kind who orders a cup of decaffeinated hot tea, then wrinkles her nose when her fingers accidentally brush the yellow Splenda packets as she retrieves a single envelope of turbinado sugar and sprinkles it into her tea. After all, she just did an hour of yoga in a 150 degree room; she can afford the extra 11 calories. And CYCs don’t use artificial sweeteners because everyone knows that they’re made from the ashes of dead babies. So not vegan.
No, I’m the kind of yoga chick who’s never done yoga. The kind who is more likely to quote Yoda than Buddha. The kind who thought downward dog was a sexual position. My idea of meditation is shutting my eyes as I take that first sip of a perfect dirty martini. As far as breathing goes, I’ll breathe when I’m dead. So when I joined a yoga studio online the other afternoon, I made sure to schedule mid-day classes because the 6 p.m. classes are smack dab in the middle of Happy Hour. And I have a feeling the instructor would frown upon me stumbling into class reeking of vodka and blue cheese stuffed olives, though I suspect my muscles would be substantially more…shall we say, relaxed.
To prep for my first yoga class, I figured I should limber up a little, so I rode my recumbent bike for ten minutes. The night before. In my pajamas. You know, to loosen up. For bed. And I had
four glasses a small glass of wine. Again, to help me relax. So I could be rested for the next day. Don’t underestimate the importance of sleep in this whole equation.
Then I arose early so that I could tackle the slabs of leather otherwise known as the soles of my feet. One of the negatives of yoga is the whole foot conundrum. I mean, my feet are nice enough to look at encased in a pair of knee-high go-go boots, but if you think I’m gonna just put my soles out there for an entire room of people to stare at – not to mention my conjoined, fraternal twin (the one who was not absorbed
at all completely in utero) also known as my “badunka dunk” – that’s another question. The bottoms of people’s feet just aren’t attractive. Mine are particularly fugly because we have wood floors – and I’m always barefoot inside – so the bottoms of my feet look like a Swiffer pad after one shitty day of swiffering. Before I crawl into bed at night, I have to rinse the accumulated cat hair, stray bits of kitty litter, small pebbles, dust bunnies, my husband’s toenail clippings, dead leaves that have been eaten by the cats then puked back up in a gray mass, pieces of shaved carrot, a Wal-mart receipt and a yellow Fiat off of the bottom of my feet lest my hubby kick me back out of bed.
I decided to shave my calluses off using a small, egg-shaped device that is essentially the equivalent of a cheese grater. Yes, the Ped Egg. It’s brilliant. This is what you have to resort to when your calluses are so tough, pumice stone turns to dust at the sight of them. The Vietnamese girls at the nail salon don goggles and pull out the Black & Decker electric sander when I come in for a pedicure. Still, after ten minutes of sawing the Ped Egg back and forth against my soles, my feet were as soft as
a baby’s butt a well-worn catcher’s mitt. Plus, my calluses were reduced to what appears to be a few ounces of grated parmesan, which I saved in a Tupperware container to serve at a dinner party attended by my enemies dumped into the garbage can. Except for all the bits that didn’t end up inside the egg contraption, but immediately hooked up with my husband’s toenails for some kind of pedal reunion while waiting for me to swiffer them up later.
Then there was shaving to be done. The invention of the maxi dress had a dramatic impact on American society – it meant that women like me (i.e. the three women in the world blessed with sparse, light blond hair on their legs – don’t be a hater) stopped shaving their legs pretty much altogether. Okay, perhaps not entirely. There’s always special occasions that warrant a shave – like pap smears and the random key party- but usually no one notices that I have hair on my legs. Male readers, please stop fondling yourselves. I know this is crazy sexy talk, but have a little control. Unfortunately, my lack of experience with shaving means that I typically find myself with multiple nicks up and down my shins and ankles – each of which bleeds like a Russian prince – so I end up with small, torn bits of toilet paper with bright red splotches in the center of each glued to my legs. Dude! Put the trouser snake back in his house.
Once my stems were smooth and moisturized, I had to give myself a badly needed pedicure. Except I didn’t really get up quite early enough to give myself a full pedicure. Or a mini pedicure. Fuck, all I had the time to do is slap a single coat of bright salmon colored enamel over my chipped toenails and pray that two minutes under the hair dryer would prevent smudging. Unlike me, CYCs don’t fret over things like pedicures because they’re perfectly tanned from spending so much time weeding their organic gardens – and bronzed feet don’t need nail polish. I am not tanned. My toes are the color of Gollum and wrinkled like miniature elephant knees. They need polish in the same way that the Pogues need an orthodontist. It’s just too ugly otherwise.
Similarly, going to yoga class barefaced was not an option. As the
Head and Shoulders commercial old adage goes, “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” Not only did I want the CYCs to view me in the best possible light (which is why I snuck into the studio the night before and changed the bulbs to soft white), I wanted to prevent innocent bystanders from being trampled by screaming CYCs, running like a herd of wildebeest at the sight of my naked visage, so I went against the CYC ban on foundation, and slopped on not one, but two coats. Hey, as with any form of exercise, safety first! Twenty minutes later, my skin was glowing, my lashes were thick and dark, and my lips were a natural, glossy pink (if natural means Las Vegas Sparkly).
CYCs are never growing out their hair. It’s either luxuriously long and knotted up on top of their heads like they hate how thick and naturally highlighted it is so they just have to get it out of their sight or they’re going to puke, or it’s uber short and pixie-like, a la Michelle Williams or Ginnifer Goodwin – because CYCs never have ginormous ears that stick straight out. If Obama was a woman, he’d never be a CYC. His ears disqualify him. As a person who is growing out one of those Mia Farrow wispy hairstyles (because I’m what Obama would look like if he was a white woman), my hair is too short to be pulled into a ponytail unless I want to go with the Samurai look and too long to stay out of my eyes unless I’m lying flat on my back. Assuming that most yoga positions won’t involve me being flat on my back because then they’d call it sleeping instead of yoga, I opted to do nothing but flat iron my dark hair super straight. I was bound to look Asian one way or another. It’s a good look for me because it makes my hair incredibly shiny – as long as it doesn’t get wet. Did I mention I am a head-sweater? It can be 45 degrees outside, but if I so much as wave at someone, my sweat glands are activated and immediately drain all fluid from my body – out through the pores on my scalp. Did I mention that I had to walk to the yoga studio? Several blocks in 80 degree Florida heat. No shade. Absolutely no shade…because Captain Idiot here scheduled her classes at NOON so that they wouldn’t interfere with Happy Hour.
I’m embarrassed to say this, but I came pretty close to calling my friend, Christine – who is both the author of the amazing blog, the book of alice and a yoga enthusiast (probably a CYC, but the kind I aspire to become) – to ask her what I should wear. Not a party or a wedding, but to yoga class. I’ve been to lots of parties and weddings, but I’ve only observed CYCs from afar. Truth be told, I only know Christine through the blogosphere, so I couldn’t even secretly follow her to a yoga class or sneak into her house and dig through her drawers (dresser drawers, you pervs!) to see where a CYC buys her gear. Initially, I had decided to go with my Ikea pajamas – black, drawstring cotton wide-legged pants and a matching black tee. Bought at Ikea for ten whole bucks. Came in a sealed plastic bag – kinda like a six pack of socks at Walmart. I know. I know. I’m a fashion plate, but let’s try to stay focused. But I am also accident prone (see The Bitch Is Back…And Shinier) and I started to worry that, while switching poses, I would trip on the excess fabric in my pants. Anticipating that my legs would likely be up in the air for much of the class (suddenly I have the strangest sense of deja vu), the other concern was that my pant legs would simply slide all the way up to my thighs and I would be left with a giant black diaper between my legs. While this would likely hide any incontinence issues that might arise, I was afraid that the CYCs would frown on my failure to follow appropriate yoga fashion protocol. Thus, I switched to a tight-fitting, knee-length pair of black workout pants that, in addition to giving me a huge muffin top and camel toe, also highlight my toilet paper adorned legs. Then I reached for my sneakers.
Except my sneakers reeked. They didn’t stink, they stank. Not stank as in the past tense of stink, but stank as in stink like a motherfucker. Stank is stink squared. This stank can permeate any sock in mere seconds. Which is why I immediately dropped my Converse lest their stank permeate my fingertips like The Bog of Eternal Stench, and reached for the only pair of open-toed, flat black shoes I own: delicate sandals adorned with tiny black diamante. Very sporty. In Monte Carlo. But CYCs don’t have stanky feet. When they remove their sneakers, the airspace around them is flooded with the scent of fresh grass, rosemary and sunshine. It is said that when Chuck Norris gets a little fatigued, he sticks his nose into a CYC’s sneaker, inhales and is completely rejuvenated.
As I picked up my gold Coach purse, I realized that no CYC in her right might would show up to class with a blingy designer bag, so I switched to a demure, faded black denim purse with a long strap that screams, I don’t care about brand names because brand names are created by corporations – and corporations burn babies, then stick their ashes in Splenda packets. Plus, this particular bag has a great story, so if a CYC casually says, “Great bag,” I could tell her how I bought it at the Portobello Road market in London. At a stand on the street. I even haggled with the vendor to get a better price. As CYCs are well-traveled and love outdoor market bargains, I felt confident that I had one acceptable story I could share during class. But what if we ended up ohming the whole time?
Maybe I could communicate all the crunchy granola-ness of my purse in sign language? If I’d had time, I could have typed up a card and simply handed it to anyone who complimented me. It would have read: I have taken a vow of silence for the next hour and a half. Thank you for your kind words about my bag. It has carried me through many countries
that I’ve only seen on television. I haggled with a curmudgeon charming vendor in the Portobello Road market in London to get the best price. It’s made entirely of previously recycled materials and was sewn by hand by a blind Guatemalan woman who was paid a living wage for her services. If you see me using Splenda, it’s because I’m infiltrating the company to write an expose about them and the secret baby cremations. Thank you for honoring my vow of silence. Namaste.
Finally, before I headed out the door, I decided to follow the yoga studio’s recommendation that I eat either a banana, granola or peanut butter a half hour before class. As I sat on my sofa spooning Peter Pan into my mouth right out of the jar, it occured to me that the website was probably talking about unsweetened, organic peanut butter sold by some corporation-pretending-not-to-be-a-corporation like Whole Foods. It’s not that I don’t like organic peanut butter, I just think it tastes so much better after I add half a bag of Splenda to it. But I can’t tell the CYCs that. It’s best that I focus on my breathing and meditation. Whatever I do, I can’t think about the blog during yoga. Mustn’t write blog in my head during class – or worse – jot down notes onto my yoga mat with a Sharpie. Oh, and mustn’t laugh at how ridiculous people will look in absurd poses. Mustn’t shout out, “That’s what she said!” when the instructor croons about how amazing a stretch feels. Oh, most crucial, mustn’t fart in class. That would just be namaste.
If you enjoyed this post, please click here to read “Part Deux – Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars,” in which I experience my very first Flying Asana Anti-Gravity Swing Yoga class. Me + Yoga + A Swing + Camel Toe = Comedy Without Even Trying
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76 thoughts on “Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars”
you had me at 4 glasses…ahem, a small glass of wine. i also own a ped egg. sorry, but i do. wifesy has drawn the line at me purchasing ‘pedi-paws’ for the dawg… xoxoxoxo, in moving hell, soon to be frequenting your blog more. xo, sm
Sweet Mother, you are such a goddess among bloggers, that I’m simply honored when you grace me with your presence. You should get your local minions to pack you. I’m sure they’d be happy to do it so that they could get more words out of you each day. Seriously, best of luck with the whole moving thing. As one who just moved, I can tell you it’s almost as fun as yoga. xo
Brilliant. So funny that I read the entire thing in the dark, at risk to my iPads life if I tripped, from the bus, to the shop and walking home, over speed bump and down dark alleyways. Amusing reference to Alexis…I sure hope he is really buried in that church and he wasn’t set aside for some Russian Splenda factory. Naturally perfect yoga chicks really do tweak all our self consciousnessessssss dont they?!
Anastasia, I must insist that you not read while walking down dark alleyways. That is a skill best reserved for CYCs or Chuck Norris. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you…
I will never look at a yoga chick the same way again! Although I think they are of some different variety here in NM, being the 2nd poorest state in the nation and all… they seem to wear more plaid and turquoise or something. I dunno, I’ll have to pay attention. Love the way you describe your legs and trash-strewn feet and sweaty scalp! Really? I’ve never known a head-sweater before. I must know if you eventually battled bodily functions in class… mmmmm.
The head-sweating thing came upon me late in life. In the last decade or so. Until then, I sweated like a normal person – out my elbows and knees.
OMG were you totally, like, in class with me today?
That will come in the Part II!
But how’d you know about my awesomely tan feet?
Because you’re always talking about all the time you spend weeding in your organic garden, Silly!
Oh, right. I have an awesome spring squash I’m sending your way. It tastes like chalk, but it’s really pretty.
Great. I’ll sprinkle some Splenda on it. The ashes of dead babies makes everything taste better. Did you wear your hair in a top knot today? How was your decaf hot tea?
I prefer a loose knot at the nape of my neck. Very modelish plus it catches my sweat. I drink seven cups of tea a day as Dr. Oz claims it’s a direretic and I love “S” shaped stools.
Really, I prefer mine “C” shaped. I wonder why? I am drinking decaf at the moment, but it’s iced, manufactured by THE MAN otherwise known as Lipton and contains a half a cup of
dead baby ashesSplenda. And Stacie, the Wizard of Oz was not a doctor. He was just a magician from Omaha who sold snake oil. You really shouldn’t listen to anything he says.
WHAT? I feel so violated.
That was that “S” shaped poo you keep talking about.
Ha ha ha ha… my colleagues probably think I’m half crazy because I was laughing out loud while reading this. I wish I could write like you! Waiting for Part II
Thanks so much. I get the part about work colleagues thinking my readers are mad quite often. Hopefully, none have been carted off to the loony bin. Glad I could make your day a little brighter – and I bet you are a terrific writer!
As a seeker of higher conciousness I’ve tried yoga. Tried it at home watching some skinny, I mean healthy, chick twist and bend other victims, er, students into positions that could only be described as a prep for the Kama Sutra. Gave up. Now I walk, weather permitting.
Yoga is difficult if you’re not a particularly bendy kind of person. Fortunately, I can combine walking with yoga since I refuse to drive there. Driving three blocks is ridiculous.
Damn CYCs making the rest of us look bad! Can’t wait to hear how the actual class went for you.
I’m the reason the yoga studio has all those darned waiver forms that you’re required to sign. Stay tuned!
BTW, fab glasses. A little subtle though, don’t you think?
I suggest reviewing the yoga scene from “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” before your next class. Practice saying it with me, “I’m doing a headstand, motherfuckers.” Yogis love it when you do that.
I will totally check that out. Yes, I hear they prefer son of a bitch.
Despite working with women and living with several (wife and daughters – not multiple wives just outside Salt Lake City), i am constantly amazed by how unbelievably difficult it is. I think I’m well on my way to switching from a foot fetish to something with less of a yuck-factor.
As for your prose, i want you to know that sentences like “They need polish in the same way that the Pogues need an orthodontist.” set you apart from the common rabble. You’re an artist dammit!
Thank you! I’m sure I’m the first one to notice the Pogues’ need for orthodontic assistance…because if I wasn’t, why wouldn’t they have nice teeth. They were a successful band, for christsakes! They have money. There’s simply no excuse for rich people having bad teeth – I don’t care what country they’re from. We’ve got to take a stand on this issue.
I’ve turned you off of feet, huh? Fortunately, my hubby never liked ’em. Hates feet – so my gross stories don’t bother him a bit. Congrats again on your Blogger of the Week win! Everybody reading this, go check out 1point’s latest and greatest blog post!
You’re too kind. No, you didn’t really sway me away from feet, but I pretended to keep from creeping out the largely female population of this site.
If I somehow manage to win the 7 deadly sins contest, I may have to retire from competition. As for the illustration aspect of it, I prefer my Easter Bunny drawing to this one, but neither one is really all that special. It’s a nice change of pace from surfing the net looking for someone else’s photos.
This is top notch. I aspire to your level of mastery in the school of italics and crossed out words. Really hilarious. BTW,I found this by searching the tags dead baby and trouser snake.
Mastering italics takes years of practice, Simon-san. First, you must learn: bold on, bold off.
As far as crossing out words goes, you must be a Jedi Master for that to truly go well. I’m merely a knight, but I’m devoted to yoga…erm, Yoda.
Yes Yoda Miyagi, away put your Splenda, I mean you no harm.
Yes! The crossed out words! That is the key to CCL’s brillance. That, and blond leg hair.
If only you could teach Alice to speak in crossed out words and italics!
Some day I will, Cristy. Some day…
i cant wait for part two, foundation, pedicure and lip gloss all for yoga in hot weather oooh this is a story that promises laughter cant wait! how is it you dont have to shave your legs i try that stunt and traffic will stop ppl wondering who released the amazonian baboon!lol
I don’t know how I get away with it. Must be peri menopause or something. Twenty years ago, if I left the house without shaving my legs, I would have looked like Chewbacca.
Thanks for explaining what causes that weird aftertaste in artificial sweeteners.
Wait til I tell you what’s in jello…
So, is this post a love letter to me? Or a hate letter? Because it is all about me, right?
Okay, ego aside, I love:
1) The knot. I just mastered the perfectly sloppy knot and it looks damn good. Who are you paying to spy on me in Iowa? Seriously. Who?
2) The frustration with the pixie-cut-growing-out stage. I just got past that earlier this year. The answer is pigtails. Seriously. They totally work at yoga. And out and about. Who cares that you aren’t three years old?
3) The thought of you breaking in to my home and digging through my drawers. You would find: black yoga pants, slightly longer black yoga pants, black knee-length yoga pants, black running tights that I wear to yoga class, and slightly smaller black running tights that I wear to yoga class. And the running tights are thermal and I wear them to a hot yoga studio. Because I am too cheap to buy appropriate yoga tights, and because yoga is ex-pen-sive!
4) Namaste as “na-masty.” Effing brilliant, Cristy.
I *heart* this post best of all. Mwah!
I *heart* you back for writing a comment that’s better and funnier than my post! You know it’s all said in love and there is no better CYC role model than you. How’s that organic garden coming along?
Only in my wildest fantasies, Cristy, could I one-up you on funny. Ain’t gonna happen.
Gardening is lovely. I am a little obsessed right now. Veggies go in today!
Go, now! Go to yoga!
Love this post. I too am a yoga poser…I mean aspiring CYC and am looking forward to throwing around the phrase “from the ashes of dead babies” in conversation later over a vegan dinner and organic cocktail (the do make organic cocktails, right? because otherwise I’m out.)
I’m certain they make an organic cocktail. I’m also certain that it costs twice as much as the non-organic version. Have you also thought about including some dead baby jokes? I’ve got a few if you need ’em.
You had me at “trouser snake.” Bravo, Mrs. CarringtonLewis! I will share this milk-jetting-out-of-your-nose-worthy post with my FB friends (the very few that care about me).
“It is said that when Chuck Norris gets a little fatigued, he sticks his nose into a CYC’s sneaker, inhales and is completely rejuvenated.”
I KNEW it. That explains the left-over energy he has to make World of Warcraft commercials.
I applaud you for being meticulously honest about the mundane reality of your daily life, and your bodily … err … quirks … err … features? Poignant verisimilitude. You routinely have me chortling at how painstakingly unpretentious you are.
That segment about bits of kitty litter stuck underneath your feet strummed an especially familiar mandolin chord (as I have two diabolical cats that plan my demise on a daily basis). Albeit, when I see your recently-updated “gravatar,” my mind doesn’t immediately jump to such corporeal images (then again, the man’s mind is a perpetual fairytale full of hipster pixies that poop flower petals and fart perfume) … perhaps you’re a tad hard on yourself.
Lastly, I must confess that I don’t particularly dig CYCs. There’s just an air of condescension to the CYC prototype that rubs me the wrong way — then again, I don’t think I can do a yoga class … what’s to prevent me from staring at the soles of their feet or derrieres?
~This comment was made possible with a Sharpie and a yoga mat.
As always, your writing makes me cringe – because mine pales by comparison. How can you be so eloquent in a comment? I am truly honored to be shared on your FB page, though I fear that your friends will likely message you and ask, “Who is that prattling idiot with dirty feet and why do you insist on following her blog?” Namaste, my friend.
P.S. What if I wore white yoga pants and scribbled my blog thoughts on my thighs whilst holding a Sharpie between my teeth? Surely I’d get props for the stretch alone. Then again, who wants to see my ass in anything tight and white. Though the studio does offer a sunset class, I doubt they’d be pleased to do yoga by the light of my full moon.
PostScript a Deux:
C — can I call you C? — While I’m sure we can volley compliments on eloquence and writing until sunset — when your full moon (a.k.a., badunka dunk) breaches the horizon in a yoga studio — it’d be at the cost of our literary appendages, which may fall from our persons like dry sycamore seeds from all the wear-and-tear. Your writing paling in comparison to mine is, while heartwarmingly humble, arguably inaccurate. In fact, I’ve always felt the reverse to be true. Truly, truly do.
Granted, if you pair two aspiring (yet meek) writers into one comment thread, that’s to be expected.
I tend to force words into becoming adverbs (hence, “heartwarmingly”). Sue me. Oh, wait, please don’t, I can’t win against a recovering attorney!
“What if I wore white yoga pants and scribbled my blog thoughts on my thighs whilst holding a Sharpie between my teeth?”
I would pay good money to see it.
“Then again, who wants to see my ass in anything tight and white.”
I’ll let the male species be the judge of that! If you’re textual compliments are any indication, you’re likely shortchanging your posterior. Just throwing that out there …
Congrats on being featured in Count to Ten, btw! And for having your 1,000th follower … and for completing your first novel (you writing machine, you) … I look forward to buying it digitally and/or in hardcopy form.
If you persist with such flattery, how will I continue to pen such self-deprecating posts chock full of self-loathing, along with insights about my poor hygiene and utter superficiality? Continuing in this manner will only ruin my not-so-lucrative blogging career, as I will inevitably begin to believe you and become one of those despicable writers who enumerates her flaws in blog posts simply to garner compliments reassuring her that the opposite of her claims is true. Then again, if you insist…praise away!
Thank you for mentioning Count to Ten. Karen is a dear friend, so I have to admit to having had a bit of an “in” when it came to the selection process. And a vast and competitive process it was.
A self-proclaimed foe of all verse with the exception of the occasional dirty limerick, Karen got it into her head that two of her characters were poets – and when Karen makes a decision about her characters, it’s immutable.She also decided that their poetry would appear in the novel. During a discussion with Karen about this dilemma, I asked her – rather sarcastically, I’m afraid – who was going to write these poems. She responded, “You are.” In the voice of her characters, no less.
I know what you’re thinking. That Cristy…what a ruthless cutthroat! She’ll stop at nothing to get an unpaid writing gig and a book credit. She’ll even assassinate every bard known to a famous suspense author in the desperate hope that one day that writer would become so masochistic that she’d include verse in one of her books and need someone to write those poems. And you’d be right. It was I who murdered Shakespeare. You didn’t even know he’d fallen victim to foul play, did you? Hell, you didn’t know he was still alive…until recently.
So be careful, Richard Sanchez. This girl won’t just balance on the brink of insanity in order to win a few compliments and a fan letter or two, she’ll dive into the abyss. And that’s when poets get hurt.
In response to your willingness to “pay good money” to observe me scribble blogging thoughts on my thighs whilst holding a Sharpie between my teeth, I say, “Yeah? How much?”
I must confess that I had to consult with my husband on this one. Usually, that’s an intimate act between just the two of us. However, in light of the fact that I’m spending half my time writing this blog simply for shits, giggles and adulation, it might not be a bad idea for me to obtain a part-time employment. Due to my blogging obligations, I really couldn’t commit to more than two or three hours a day. Think about it and get back to me.
Your humble blogger,
I’m replying to this comment because your latest comment has no reply option — dear God!
Firstly, my apologies for the alleged “over-adulation” of your words and accomplishments in literature. You’re right, how are you to survive as a writer if the adulation supersedes the angst and existential dread of being an expresser, err, an expresso? … of words and clever sentences. You know how it goes … art borne of pain … pleasure borne of friction … it’s conceptually and anatomically true …
Did I just say friction? I was referring to the Ped Egg, come on people!
I also have a problem with honesty, if you can believe it. That is to say, extraneous, gooey helpings of it in spoons and ladles … so please excuse my “sensi” ways, as all too often, gooey honesty can be the unplanned cure for creativity. In terms of Count To Ten, hey, I would be hardpressed to find any writer or artist or artisan espresso maker that didn’t need that “in” and/or that Ped Egged foot in the door. I myself am still looking for that “ajar door” to step my puma-shoe-sheathed foot in. “Hey world, I’m here, and I have a few things to say, so brace yourself, and while you’re at it, embrace yourself in the mirror, ’cause you’re beautiful.”
Excellent, I will take your Sharpie Contortionist offer to my people, and have my CYMs (cool yoga men) call your CYCs, and will make you a monetary, given that your husband sanctions it. We could perhaps subtract the white-tight pants and substitute pantaloons if the former becomes a problem.
At the end of the blogging day, of course, my adulation knows no bounds, particularly when I feel it’s warranted! You might just need to accept that, and still make room for the abyss — hey, there’s always room for an abyss I says.
The PuertoLivian (half puertorican, half bolivian)
Pantaloons? I’ve always wanted a pair of pantaloons. However, so as not to make my husband jealous, do you think you could throw in a pair of spats for him. He’s been jonesin’ for a pair.
Your humble employee,
Dear C — a pair of spats? I must claim ignorance here, given the context of this discussion. I only know so much, you know. As long as they don’t resemble assless chaps, then I’m down!
You don’t know what spats are? How is that possible? I prescribe two episodes of How Do I Look? and call me in the morning. Oh, you might want to take something for nausea as watching even one episode of How Do I Look? on an empty stomach can bring on the need to regurgitate.
Must follow the doctor’s orders, then! I’ll also keep an antacid handy for the nausea …
Golf-clapping your preperation technique…
It’s a gift. The ability to spin getting showered and dressed for a yoga class into 2000+ words is a fucking gift. That’s all I can say, Brian. And thank you for stopping by, my new friend!
It’s a pleasure to bask in the refracted glow of your awesome.
You know, the manufacturers of Splenda have actually diversified significantly. Now, before they burn the babies, they make them cry for days by giving them candy and then taking it away over and over again. They do this to collect the tears, which they desalinate to produce Perrier and gourmet salt. THEN they burn them.
Good to know! Perhaps we could all learn a little from the Splenda people. Just imagine how many jobs that has created in our stunted economy. Way to go, Splenda!
I’ll take spats and a monocle! Or pantaloons and a blunderbuss.
Goodness… I’m not sure which I enjoyed more: your original post or your conversation with Richard. Must. Share. Now. Looking forward to Part II.
Why thank you, Wandering Voiceless! Sharing is such a good think. Especially when money is involved. Do you have any you’d like to share with…me, maybe?
Part II shall be posted on Monday morning, so get up early and brew some especially strong coffee. Then give yourself an enema with it. What? Coffee enemas are extremely popular. What does this have to do with Part II? Think how much more you’ll enjoy reading my blog after having an enema. It’ll be like a reward. Anything would be awesome as compared to a blistering hot coffee enema.
Sorry, I have no $$ to share… although I would share with the world if I could.
Having had an enema in preparation for my first born — before they figured out such things were hugely unnecessary — I will pass on the coffee enema, as I wouldn’t want to waste the coffee. (Green Tea on the other hand we might be able to negotiate.)
And what did you name the little bugger?
The now 23 year old little bugger is my darling daughter Brandi. :>
But then you’d fall asleep while sitting on the toilet.
@Wandering Voiceless, I’m convinced that in a parallel universe, CarringtonLewis and I run a duo-blog featuring nothing but our non sequitur dialogues, ;p … huzzah!
I might just enjoy living in that parallel universe. However, in this one, such an endeavor would likely mean I’d have to sacrifice my yoga classes. Tough decision. One that may become less tough as time goes on. You’ll understand when you read Part II of Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars. Hint: Not only can I not walk and chew gum at the same time, I can’t walk and WALK at the same time.
Can’t wait to see part deux.
You have decaffeinated tea in the States? What for?
For those idiots who think that caffeine is BAD for them. You know, like me. Yes, I buy decaffeinated tea bags…but just for iced tea because I drink gallons of the stuff.
In defense of CYCs the world over, I believe some green teas are naturally decaffeinated – but I’m sure that toddlers are employed to grow these plants. Toddlers who work for nothing but Skittles and whose teeth are rotting out of their heads by the time they’re six. But the green tea makers don’t care because the toddlers have another set coming in anyway.
But that doesn’t fix scurvy. Or being bow-legged. Damn you, CYCs – promoting scurvy and bow-leggedness in toddlers with your decaffeinated teas. Have you no shame?
Hurry up and buy a Coke and we’ll all be good.
“They didn’t stink, they stank. Not stank as in the past tense of stink, but stank as in stink like a motherfucker. Stank is stink squared.”
LOL! I love this! My daughter’s feet and shoes are stanky. Fortunately, mine aren’t too bad, but hers…whew!
Pity her. It’s a horrible thing…to go through life with stanky feet and shoes. She should start yoga immediately.
yer killin me!
Read the follow up post. It gets worse. I wish I was making this stuff up.
Well, I am definitely not a Cool Yoga Chick given I do yoga in the privacy of my own home. That way I don’t have to prep for anyone. Not that I would anyway…
By the way, I loved how you so casually slipped in a mention of a ‘random key party.’ If you’re not a CYC, you’re definitely an NYC (Naughty Yoga Chick…)
Bwhaahaahaa! Naughty, I am not. Yoga Chick, I am not. Snarky…erm, I’ll own up to that one! 😉