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Part Deux – Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

Yoda Yoga – Demonstrating That Yoda Was A Jedi Yoga Grand Master.

This is Part II of  my two-part post, Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars. If you haven’t read Part I of this series, click here now. Or what? I’ll kick you, that’s what!


When I saw my reflection in the plate glass window of the lawyer’s office, I immediately knew that I should have stuck with the Ikea pajama bottoms. Or perhaps starved myself for no less than 7 weeks before deciding to take a yoga class that required me to parade my ass around downtown in a clingy tee and a faded pair of black workout pants. One glimpse out the corner of my eye confirmed what I had suspected back at home: my camel toe was no regular camel toe. It was a camel toe of Sally O’Malley proportions. My only hope was that my muffin top would shade my crotch area sufficiently to hide this fact from bystanders.

Sally O’Malley – Queen of the Fifty-Year Old Camel Toe

Note to self: Must stop writing about my vagina. Damn you, David Sedaris!

If only I’d run out and purchased a yoga mat. It is true what they say: No adolescent boy should be without a notebook and no 43 year old woman wearing the equivalent of black Spanx with a racing stripe should be without a yoga mat. Preferably a yoga mat that is unrolled. And wrapped around her body.

Brian Setzer – This Is My Idea Of Yoga Music (Image via Wikipedia)

But there I was, sweat waterfalling down my neck and off my shoulders, sauntering down the historic streets of Wouldn’t-You-Camel-Toe-Fetish-Pervs-Like-To-Know on my way to my very first Flying Asana Anti-Gravity Swing Yoga class. I know…what yoga newbie wouldn’t sign up for a class with a name like that. As soon as I had read the class description, memories of Disney World’s Flying Dumbo ride merged with images of Brian Setzer jamming on a vintage Gretsch surrounded by people doing the jitterbug – in space.

Make that people with camel toe doing the jitterbug in space.

The accompanying photo had looked so nurturing. Alluring. Supple bodies cradled in mid-air by a swath of white silk dangling like cocoons from the ceiling. They had looked so relaxed just hanging there. Perhaps I could crawl into one of those magical exercise hammocks as a vodka-swilling, Splenda-sprinkling, callus-shaving, head-sweating, stanky feet-stinking, cynical caterpillar and emerge as an decaf tea-sipping, corporate coffee-banning, organic granola-munching CYC (Cool Yoga Chick) with perennially-tanned feet, a green thumb, lush sun-streaked locks knotted on top of my head and feet always smelling of freshly-mown grass, rosemary and sunshine. How could I resist desiring the pedal appendages of the only people who can provide restorative powers to Chuck Norris?

Flying Asana Anti-Gravity Swing Yoga or Napping? (Image via

And yet, these people were essentially lying on their backs. Perhaps my secret hope that I could sleep whilst doing yoga wasn’t just a pipe dream.  I mean, I’m exceptionally good at lying on my back. Hell, you should see me on my side in a fetal position – and these swings were certainly womb-like. Maybe I would be one of those savants who strolls into a yoga studio for the first time and leaves an hour later as a Jedi Master? I’d carry a lightsaber to class instead of a yoga mat because I wouldn’t need a mat. Yoda never sat on a mat. Perhaps the Yoda of yoga I was. See! I was already doing it.

I clutched my no-name denim bag nervously as I rounded the corner and the studio came into view – with an image of Buddha on its sign. Though Buddha wasn’t lying on his back in a swing, I had to admit he looked extremely peaceful with his eyes closed and his hands resting gently in his generous lap. Then it hit me. Buddha was fat! Yet there he was – maybe not as chubby  or undressed as I’d seen him previously – sitting in a lotus position exerting no effort at all. Hell, I could practically hear him snoring. This was definitely the place for me. Squaring my shoulders, I strode like a rooster down the sidewalk, owning it. Soon I would be enveloped in a cool, dark space hung with silken cradles. Wisps of patchouli smoke, and the sound of crashing waves mingled with the haunting, hollow clickety clack of bamboo wind chimes would sooth me into a meditative state of REM sleep, and when I awoke, I’d have biceps and killer abs.

Sssshhhh! Don’t Wake The Sleeping Buddha (Image via

As I entered the building, I immediately removed my shoes and stashed my belongings in one of the cubbies provided. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply. Hmmm. No patchouli. They probably wait until class starts so that the students don’t zone out before they even sign in. I craned my ears, listening for sounds of ocean waves lapping on a tropical sand beach. Nope.

But I did hear something.

“Could you help? Get the door! Get the door! We’ve got a bug,” screeched a woman, poured into a pair of tie-dyed leggings. After stamping an industrial-sized dust mop down on top of a frenzied cockroach, she pushed it towards me. There was fear in her eyes. I opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk on my toes – not because I was concerned about coming into contact with the roach, but because I was afraid that I would dirty the soles of my carefully grated, cleaned and moisturized feet. As the poor critter was swept over the threshold and out into the cruel world, it staggered and squinted in the sunlight, one antenna bent at a precarious angle. Clearly, there were no Jedi Masters inside this establishment. I would be the first.

Yoda Wouldn’t Freak Out At The Sight Of One Of These (Image via

Once the danger had been allayed, Fern, the instructor and studio owner, asked me to sign two waivers absolving the studio of any and all liability should I be injured, be maimed or die during the Flying Asana Anti-Gravity Swing Yoga class or any of the other classes. Die? Did people die doing this? Funny, but the glossy website didn’t mention anything about death. “Excuse me,” I said. “These, uh, waivers mentions the word death – more than once. Is there something I should know?”

Fern smiled and rolled her eyes in a way that said, “Pshaw!” Leaning towards me as if she was about to share a deep, personal secret, she asked in a breathy whisper, “There’s nothing wrong with your ticker, is there?”

“Erm, no. No, my ticker is, uh, ticking along just fine, thank you.”

Throwing her hands up in the air, she released a laugh that seemed to have crawled from somewhere deep in her gut. Must be that yoga breathing technique I’d heard so much about. “Then you’ll be fine.” She nodded her head knowingly. “Sometimes, we get an old fogey in here who just wants to check out the girls. And sometimes, their hearts ain’t so good, if you know what I mean.” She winked. Somehow, my imagined yoga experience never included winking.

The former contract attorney in me cautioned, “She’s just covering herself. Then again, maybe this is danger –“ But she was quickly interrupted by the soon-to-be-Jedi-Master in me who snapped, “Don’t be such a fucking pussy! It’s a piece of paper. What’s a piece of paper to one who carries a lightsaber? What’s a piece of paper to one who has harnessed the powers of The Force?” Yes, my Jedi Master sometimes cusses like a sailor and, I suspect, smokes a cigar. I scribbled my signature on both forms, then followed Fern into the studio.

One student had already nestled herself into a silk sack that was swinging slightly, as though she was rocking herself to sleep. Oh, why hadn’t I worn those pajama bottoms? And maybe some fuzzy socks? But all the CYCs had also chosen tight fitting yoga pants and tanks. Didn’t these people like to be comfortable when they rested? Obviously, none of these women were the type who immediately removed her bra the second she got home, unhooking it under her shirt and pulling it out through an armhole. Perhaps wearing a bra all the time was the reason for their exceptional posture? Other CYCs were attaching their swings to chains dangling from the ceiling, adjusting for their height, while two other students lay on their mats and used the low hanging fabric as a mechanism for stretching out their impossibly lean and toned bodies.

Not My Yoga Classmates (Image via

Come to think of it, everyone in the room was thin. The kind of people who sink right to the bottom of the pool if they try to free float because there’s just nothing to keep them aloft. The kind with BMIs lower than their ring size. Not one of them remotely resembled the double-chinned Buddha on the sign outside. Perhaps that was my power. Maybe it was my muffin top that would guarantee my position as the first Jedi Master this studio had fostered? But a nagging little voice in the back of my head whined, I don’t want to be a fat Jedi Master. Obi-Wan wasn’t plump. Yoda may have been short and his prominent ears might have prevented him from becoming an official CYC, but he certainly wasn’t portly.

After Fern introduced me as a newbie and provided me with a complimentary “first visit” mat – which she placed directly next to hers – I plopped down. And waited. But Fern had wandered off to help other students. All around me, my peers were stretching muscles that, not only could I not name, but I doubted I’d ever actually utilized in my two score and three years. To my left, a petite brunette CYC, whose upper arms were browned and ropey like strands of hemp twine, bent herself in half, the tips of her fingers cradling her unpolished toes, her chin resting on her knees. Not knowing what to do, I followed suit and also touched my toes – an act made simpler by the fact that I was sitting cross-legged.

Feeling adventurous, I uncrossed my legs and stretched them straight out in front of me. Certainly, I could touch my nose to my knees. I mean, it’s not like it’s an act that involves lifting barbells the size of my Camry’s tires. Really, you just have to let the upper half of your body fall. Presumably, my knees would catch my head before it hit the ground. It’s just gravity, if you think about it.

Except nothing in my body agreed with the principles of physics. In fact, I’m fairly certain that as I leaned forward at the waist, I heard my hamstrings hiss, “Fuck off, Sir Isaac Newton!” Nope, about 16 degrees into the stretch, my body came to a jarring halt. Sorry, but this is as far as you go, my tendons and muscles said, kicking my goal of uniting my nose and knees for the first time in history to the curb like a creepy hitchhiker. Perhaps, I thought, my hamstrings just needed a little bribing. Reaching down, I gently massaged the undersides of my thighs, but they were rigid, taut as guitar strings just on the verge of snapping. As a general rule, I like to avoid the snapping of body parts.

Sir Isaac Newton – My Hamstrings Say “Fuck You And Your Silly Rules!” (Image via

To placate my angry muscles, I pulled my feet towards me, allowed my soles to touch and my knees to drop, forming an attractive diamond shape in front of me. I like diamonds. As I blissfully permitted my thoughts to meander into the realm of gems and how lovely they are in general, the CYC to my left suddenly said, “Look at you. You’re like an old pro.”

What? I knew it. Even when I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, my future as a Jedi Yoga Master was apparent. “Thank you,” I responded with a brilliant smile, “but I really don’t know what I’m doing.”

Reassuringly, the CYC said, “Well, you sure look like you do.”

Ha! This class was going to be a breeze. For a moment, I considered leaving. I mean, why embarrass all the other students who’ve probably been studying for months, maybe years? Then again, I couldn’t help it if I was a prodigy. And my place was there. In the studio. I had to be an example for others. The lightsaber that would brighten their path to enlightenment.

Bobby Fischer – Chess Prodigy
Dr. Sheldon Cooper – Theoretical Physics Prodigy
The Taller Than Average Woman – Jedi Yoga Master Prodigy?

“Okay, class. Let’s get started with a few simple stretches.” Fern walked us through moves I’d seen before and could easily emulate. I started to wonder why I was paying for this class. I could do this at home. For free. While watching reruns of Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis on Bravo! Stifling a yawn, I glanced around the room, expecting to see multiple pairs of eyes staring at me in awe. But there were none. Dear, lord…I had already attained super star status. Everyone knows that you don’t look directly at the talent. It’s in every entertainment rider in the universe. It makes them – erm, I mean us – feel uncomfortable. You don’t speak to Angelina Jolie. You don’t make eye contact with P. Diddy. You don’t even glance at Mariah Carey. I knew it must be hard for my classmates to stretch whilst trying to catch a glimpse of me in their peripheral vision, but what could I do? It would be rude to ask Fern if I could relocate my swing to the front of the class where everyone could ogle me freely. Not during my first class, anyway.

Once we were warmed up, Fern instructed us to place our stomachs on the swing and lift our appendages as though we were flying. As I complied, I began to wonder when she was going to take this class out of the playground and into gravity-defying space. C’mon. We were playing airplanes, for chrissake. Next she’d be telling us to sit down criss-cross applesauce and would hand out store brand, vanilla oreos and Dixie cups filled with apple juice. “Now, I want you to place your palms on your mat and wriggle forward until the swing fabric has moved from your abdomen down to your ankles.”

Wriggle? That didn’t sound very yoga-like to me. Not wanting to be accused of being a diva, however, I began to wriggle. As the fabric slid away from my mid-section and down my legs – which had suddenly become a good three miles long – I began to feel a burn in my shoulders and arms. My lower back started to ache as my belly sagged towards the mat.

“Cristy, tighten those abs. Hold your body erect while wriggling,” Fern directed me. Easy for her to say. Her stems were only a block in length while mine ran all the way out to the freeway. And she had a six-pack under her tank top, while I was storing blubber in preparation for a long, cold winter. The more I wiggled, the more my upper arm muscles began to shudder. “C’mon, Cristy. You can do it,” Fern urged.

“But I think my arms are having an epileptic seizure,” I whined. “Someone must have turned on a strobe light when I wasn’t looking.” However, just at that moment, I felt the cool silk envelop my ankle bones. I had done it.

Vampire Spider Prepared To Attack – Not The Worst Thing That Could Happen To Me During Yoga Class (Image via

“Great job, Cristy!” Fern cried. I could feel every set of eyes turn to appraise my achievement. Except by then, my entire body weight had been redistributed to my spaghetti arms – and when I fell, my knees weren’t there to catch my nose. As I tried to roll to break my fall, my feet became hopelessly twisted in the fabric. I half expected a giant spider to crawl out of the ceiling, encase me in silken threads as strong as steel, then drain the blood from my body.

But something worse happened.

As I struggled to disentangle my feet, I farted.

By most standards, it was a small, harmless passing of gas. It didn’t smell. It didn’t last long enough for a child to recite the alphabet in sing-song manner. No one screamed, “Gas leak!” But it was there. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. How do I know this? Because as quickly as my classmates had craned their necks to check out my accomplishment, they’d turned away. Embarrassed. And rightly so. Yoda never farted. Considering Jedi Masters could harness The Force to prolong life and prevent decay, I’m pretty certain that Yoda was able to avoid floating an air biscuit in front of Luke Skywalker. I didn’t know what to do. Acknowledge it with a laugh? Shout Excuuuuuuuuuuuse me, thereby confusing the class with my Steve Martin impression and causing them to forget the fart? Perhaps I could use a Jedi mind trick: This isn’t the flatulist you’re looking for.

Before I could do or say anything, Fern had instructed us to rise and stand in our swings. “Wrap the silk around your wrists once before grasping the fabric above.” Following directions, I clenched my ass cheeks together tightly to ensure that I wouldn’t accidentally blow another butt bugle. “Okay, now lift your legs straight out in front of you, allowing your abs  and upper body to support the weight.”

Huh? Erm, I wanted to point out to Fern that after the debacle only moments earlier, my upper body had accepted a position working as one of those wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube men, and my abs had abdicated any and all responsibility towards supporting my body, financially or otherwise, and were resting comfortably against my intestines.

My Arms’ Stint As A Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man – I’m The One In Yellow  (Image via Wikia)

Not to mention that I’m familiar with this particular exercise. It’s called a hanging leg lift. Typically, you hold on to an easy-to-grasp metal bar above you or your upper arms are bolstered by some kind of support system. People who can perform this exercise properly look like this:

Is He Naked? (Image via

Not like this:

Not Me – She’s A Triple Muffin Top, While I’m Only A Single (Image via

The second I removed my feet from the swing, I could feel my palms begin to burn as the silk fabric slid painfully through my hands.  Quickly, I lowered my feet. “Fern, I don’t think I can do this one.”

“Sure you can,” she chimed. “You just need to modify the pose.  Instead of lifting your feet straight out in front of you, just try lifting your knees up towards your chest.”

I wanted to tell her that I’d failed just trying to lift my feet – period. But there was Yoda, warbling in that annoying voice of his in the back of my head. No. Try not. Do or do not. There is no try. Motherfucker. His legs only make up about a quarter of his body, whereas I’m built like a Japanese spider crab. I’ve got a hell of a lot more to lift. But then the fighter in me reared her stubborn head. I’ll show that bat-eared Jedi that I can do anything. And then I’m gonna rip his little gremlin ears off.

Gizmo the Gremlin Or Yoda Before Male Pattern Baldness Set In? (Image via

With that, I mustered up every bit of strength that remained in my body and lifted my knees. As my feet cleared the fabric, I felt that familiar sliding sensation – the one that made my hands sting as though they were being sliced open with red hot knives. I clenched my fingers around the silk more tightly as my toes quickly inched up and away from the swing – only to plummet back down again just as rapidly. Essentially, I’d performed a mini-jump. As I relaxed my grip on the fabric, a strange tingling traveled up the middle and index fingers on my left hand. Then the sensation disappeared.

Along with all feeling in tip of my middle finger.

Holy shit! I couldn’t feel the top half of that finger at all. It must have gone to sleep. It was a rather boring class, after all. Hugging the upper portion of the swing with my underarms, I lowered my hands and began to massage the numb finger like a veterinarian briskly rubbing the life back into a still-born pup. And nothing happened. I continued rubbing. Then progressed to shaking my left hand back and forth as if that still-born pup had gotten some water in its ears. Still nothing. I could feel the panic rising in my throat. Fuck being a Jedi Master! I’m a writer, for chrissakes. I need that finger.

“Cristy, are you going to give it another shot?” Fern inquired, as I frantically smacked at my lifeless finger.

“Umm. I can’t feel my finger.”

“Did you try modifying the pose like I suggested?” She said the word “modifying” slowly, exaggerating each syllable as though I was both deaf and frantic.

“Yes, I modified the pose,” I spit through gritted teeth, “and now my middle finger is completely numb.” Then I showed her my middle finger. Really showed it to her.

My Husband Demonstrating How I Showed Fern My Injured Middle Finger (Image via Cristy Lewis)

“Okay, then. We all progress at different speeds,” she replied in that nobody-rattles-me-because-I’m-a-CYC-and-my-feet-smell-like-rosemary voice of hers. “After class, I can help you schedule some classes that might be more appropriate for your fitness level.

My fitness level! Was she insinuating that I wasn’t fit? Okay, maybe I’m not Jillian Michaels, but I’m no schlub either. After all, I did walk to the studio. Two and a half blocks. After jogging down a flight of stairs. And I spent a whole ten whole minutes on my recumbent bike last night – on level 2! I burned an entire 47 calories. Not to mention that this was supposed to be a swinging class. Their website mentioned nothing about clinging desperately to slippery fabric with your bare hands while performing acrobatics. Talk about misrepresentation. And now I was maimed. I was fairly certain that this was permanent nerve damage. My writing career was over. I couldn’t pen a blog without using the letters d, e and x.  Dammit! I would sue.

But I couldn’t sue. I’d signed two bloody waivers. Damn the soon-to-be-Jedi-Master-voice-in-my-head! It was all his cussing and cigar-smoking encouragement that got me into this mess. As far as Yoda went, I was ready to show him where he could put his damn lightsaber.  And Obi-Wan – he could just suck it!


It’s been a week and a half now and I’ve yet to return to the yoga studio. Though the feeling in my fingertip gradually returned after a week, my bruised ego remains the color of a sky that brings with it hail and tornadoes. The disappointment that came with discovering that I would not be the first Jedi Master to grace my studio was difficult to overcome, but throwing darts at my Lego Yoda was surprisingly cathartic. Okay, I don’t actually own a Lego Yoda, but I desperately want one. And if I did own one, I’m sure it would have made me feel a lot better about things. Particularly if I owned this one:

Available On For A Mere $474.88. What? Is That Too Much To Spend On Your Favorite Blogger?

On Saturday, I finally broke down and bought a yoga mat, and last night, I painted my toe nails again in anticipation of Monday’s class. A more traditional class called Vinyasa Flow. The word flow sounds pretty benign. I mean, I go with the flow all the time. Rivers flow and they don’t even try. It’s all downhill, right? I bet I’ll kick ass at it. It’ll probably be easy-peasy. Chuck Norris will be sniffing my shoes any day now. Hell, he’ll be polishing my lightsaber for me after this class.


59 thoughts on “Part Deux – Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

  1. Cristy,
    This is hilarious. You are a great writer and I know this because I continued reading without even noticing the part about camel toe was over. You are gonna own that flow class.

    1. We’ll see…only an hour to go before it starts. Shit! I’d better get a shower. I’ve got legs to shave, hair to flat iron and at least 14 clothing changes to go through before I find the workout pants that ensure I stay at one muffin top…not two.

  2. I love the part about you crawling into the yoga sack and emerging as a CYC with different-smelling feet! So funny. Great story, Cristy. I really can’t get the image of those sacks out of my mind, also loved the spider idea! I suppose you’re not the first-ever yoga farter, but still… it would be hard for me to reappear in front of someone named Fern for another go after that. BTW, I’m not sure if you saw my post a few weeks ago about Regretsy? If you haven’t already, you should check out Regretsy. Your writing reminds me so much of hers… this recent post, in particular.

    1. Dearest Laura (my favorite artist/blogger/funeral urn maker/writer/mother on the planet),

      Thank you for your lovely compliments. You’re always so kind to me. I am so behind on my reading and I missed quite a few posts across the board while we were in the middle of the moving/unpacking process, so I think I did miss your post about Regretsy. Clearly, I will have to check her out. After I go to yoga. Yes, I’m going back. Let’s hope I don’t come home in a cast.



    1. Then you should come with me and read this during my next yoga class. I’m feeling particularly gassy and you could distract the students with your laughter so that I can float an air biscuit if necessary.

      1. Thank you, but I was thinking of stealing Stacie Chadwicks so I could drive more traffic to my blog.

      2. The rumor is that you only have to Google “hot chick” and Stacie’s blog is the first thing that pops up. If she wasn’t my bestie and so friggin’ nice (really, so nice it’s kind of disgusting), I’d hate her. But I can’t. Even though I’m the result of the matting of the unenlightened Scrooge and The Grinch, I still like her. In fact, it’s Stacie who made my heart grow three times its size (from two sizes too small) in a single day.

  3. I must have looked a fool with how hard I silently wheezed at this! The fall, the fart, this is so much more than blog fodder – classic! I’m impressed that you’re already heading back. A glutton for punishment, perhaps? Let us know how it goes!

    1. Just returned actually. No farting this time, but profuse sweating was involved. My feet were slipping off the mat during Downward Dog. No injuries today, but I may require vast quantities of liquor within the next few hours.

  4. So funny! I’ve always wanted to try one of those classes, but alas there’s nothing like it here. Still laughing. Just be glad your fart didn’t stink! eek

    1. Recumbent bike, maybe? Treadmills are hard on the knees. As is yoga. Am looking for knee pads to wear to my next class. Don’t even type the thought that just popped into your head. I know what it is and I love you for thinking it because we’re so alike.

      1. I see nothing wrong with the idea that, with your new kneepads, you might be able to more comfortably scrub your floors…or provide other domestic services.

  5. Fav line: “Not knowing what to do, I followed suit and also touched my toes – an act made simpler by the fact that I was sitting cross-legged.”

    Why? Because I can’t touch my toes, and if you tell anyone I’ll kill you. It will totally ruin my fake CYC street cred and I’ll be banned from my fav hot astanga class that makes life full of shiny rainbows and orgasms fall from the sky.

    Love it, as always, BB.

  6. Keep with it. If only for the material. Flying in a fabric sling doesn’t seem like a good idea for me. As a matter of fact bending my limbs contrary to their normal angle gives me the whillies. You’re going back that’s what coutnts. BTW, LMAO>

    1. You know, Tom. You just gave me a really good idea. Perhaps if I just spent all day reading my favorite funny bloggers like you and Stacie Chadwick and Sweet Mother and the book of alice and In Harsh Light…the list goes on and on and on, I could, in fact, laugh my ass off. Then I could quit yoga. How many calories are burned during an hour of chuckling? Anyone know?

      1. You burn up 10 to 40 calories laughing 15 minutes. In other words, wait until the political campaign ramps up and LYAO. You’ll have to read or watch good TV to repair the damage done to gray cells by watching our future leaders. Toddles.

      2. So, it wouldn’t be unrealistic to burn,say, 80 calories an hour just laughing at blogs. During the Republican National Convention, I bet I could burn thousands of calories an hour. That’ll just be the gravy. That’ll be what I need to lose that last ten pounds.

  7. Hahahaha – and this is why I will never step foot in a Yoga (or Yoda) studio. I am not as brave as you and I am prone to tripping over small to moderate dust bunnies, there is no way I could configure myself into any of those poses!
    Great post!

    1. Why thank you, shoes! I’m also unbelievably accident prone (check out my post, The Bitch Is Back – And Shinier, about sustaining a black eye while cleaning a refrigerator) and don’t need anything to be within a 3 mile vicinity in order to trip over it. I trip over its vibrations. I trip over gravity. And, for the record, I’ve not yet been able to successfully configure myself into a single position with the exception of Downward Dog (I’ve had a lot of practice with THAT one…do you really need to know more) and shavasana, otherwise known as the death pose. The latter is essentially lying on your back. Sleeping. I am soooooo good at that pose. I held that pose for like ten minutes…completely unassisted. Then I came home and practiced it for another few hours just to make sure that I had it down pat.

      Love the photo. Adore the hat and glasses. Dig the pageboy. Snap, girl! Snap!

  8. Brutally funny. To be honest, all this talk of muffin tops is making me peckish. If you think that dealing with CYC’s is tough, imagine how bad it is for us guys, where the buffest dudes at the local gym are either steroid freaks, gay boys or both. Although, there’s no need for a pedi before we pump iron.

    1. I hate to admit it, but the CYCs in my classes have actually been extremely nice and supportive. Ssssh. Don’t tell anyone though. They’re like Stacie Chadwick…I wish I could hate them, but they’re really cool and down-to-earth.

      Gay men can be extremely tough critics of other men…that is true. And that’s why they’re gay. To frustrate the hell out of single women. Nothing worse than a totally hot guy who is unattainable for not one, but two reasons. But they should serve as an excellent example for you. If you pump that iron, the biceps…they will come!

      Actually, I know lots of gay men who aren’t gym whores, can’t decorate for shit, don’t own a bedazzler and who don’t watch the Miss America Pageant. But, fortunately, most of them love David Sedaris. Yay!

      1. The world used to be a simple place, where I could count on gay men to be far wittier than I could hope to be (Honey, those pants and that top? At the same TIME?! You better march yourself back into that dressing room!), now they’ve just about cornered the market on pecs and abs. However, much like the CYC’s, they’re actually quite nice and helpful. They’re constantly offering to spot me at the gym.

  9. “This is not the flatulist you’re looking for.” EPIC. I will use that ALL. THE. TIME. (Because I fart a lot. In case you didn’t catch that.)

    1. We should form a club. I’m starting to think of my sphincter as an instrument. My farts are quite musical, and the word flatulist sounds like the name of someone who plays some kind of musical instrument.

      1. Not a club, a band! We would make a killing at children’s birthday parties! Um, probably literally. How much methane can a little person handle before passing out? Well, we can always make the parents sign a waiver.

      2. You kidding! The parents would probably LOVE a band that could knock all the little critters out after they’ve been hyped up on cake and ice cream. We’d be a parent’s biggest secret.

  10. Hmm, a swinging yoga class- sounds devilish. Should be held at night with my kinda swings rather than these silk entrapments of which have sabotaged you.

    I went to my first yoga class last week. Although I didn’t get close enough to the instructor’s feet to see if they smelled like rosemary and grass, they were lined with the most bad-ass dragon tats that I’ve ever seen. And they, in addition to her entire body, were tan (perpetually I’m sure.) Bitch.

    And aside from how to wear clothes and return them, the greatest thing that my ma has ever taught me is how to remove a bra through an arm sleeve. That’s yoga right there.

    And this is the one-up that jogging has over yoga: when I shit my pants two houses from my own, there’s no class to smell it and no wall of mirrors to exploit it.

    Kudos to you for continuing your yoga journey. Good luck and great post.

  11. Everyone farts in yoga, Cristy. Everyone. It is totally embarrassing when you are the flatulator, and no one gives a damn when they are the flatulees. Unless it is stinky. No one likes a stinky flatulator.

    Now probably isn’t the best time to tell you that the goal of your first vinyasa class is not to fall off your mat…

  12. I was waiting for the kind of fart-monster that starts at the front of the room and causes hyperventilating on the entirety of it’s foul journey to the back. What a plot-twist that you just puffed out a harmless, albeit loud-enough-to-notice, lil’ tootsie. In this spirit, I’m crashing your next class. You bring tha noise, I bring tha funk.

    Tour-de-force laff-laffs. Make up a Part III. Or something else…

    1. I would love for you to come to my yoga class. Then I could get a second party’s opinion of how ridiculous I look and not have to rely on my reflection in windows and mirrors. Perhaps you could bring a sketch artist and da funk!

      On a side note, just returned from the broadcast Live showing of This American Life and I’ve now decided my goal in life is to read my musings on NPR. I no longer want to marry David Sedaris; I want to be David Sedaris – the one who looks like a woman, but still likes men. He was hysterical tonight, but the entire show was unbelievable. I love living in a real city!

    1. Do you plans include kidnapping David Sedaris and Ira Glass? Maybe if we kept them long enough they could develop that syndrome in which you fall in love with your captor. Once they’re in love with us, we’re in like Flynn. What that hell does that expression mean anyway? Who’s Flynn and why is he in. Does he know someone or is he wearing a really great shirt? Maybe we should kidnap Flynn and ask him what to do. I mean…he’s got all the ins.

  13. Toot funny! OMG, there is no way I would be able to do any of those things you described, except the farting part. That I might have been able to do. LOL.

  14. Catching up on the posts for the month (grad school cuts into blog reading time, I hadn’t considered that.) Now I’m chucking away, patting my Lego yoda on the head, fondly remembering how you guys never came over, limiting your chances to steal it. (Bradenton, really? That’s past BFE)

  15. My God, you’re funny. You need to write a book. I don’t really like ‘Chick Lit’ as it’s called, but if you wrote a novel about a woman making all the wrong moves (like having stinky sneakers and passing gas in yoga class), I would so read that!

    1. So funny you say that because I originally wanted to write “chick lit,” which is officially “dead” now in the publishing world. Of course, it’s not really deceased, it’s just call “women’s fiction” or “romantic comedy” now. Good to know I have your support if I give that genre another stab. 🙂

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