So if you follow me on Twitter and/or you’ve been keeping up with my blog, you know that I’m totally into hot yoga these days. I love that I sweat my ass off and feel like I’ve gotten a really good mind and body workout each and every time I leave the steamy studio. That being said, I had something happen to me yesterday that left me feeling both nauseous and even more in need of a very thorough washing afterwards.

Monday mornings are always completely packed at my hot yoga place — we’re talkin’ shit tons of body heat crammed into a little room that’s well on its way to exceeding 100+ degrees. I always go through at least two water bottles and two towels within an hour and a half class, and my clothes could be wrung out like a dishrag by the end of it. I even have to put a yoga towel over my mat to keep it from turning into a slip n’ slide. Yeah, it’s HOTTTTTTT in there alright!

As usual, yesterday morning’s class was filled with a very tightly packed bunch of sweaty bodies all trying to get their zen on. I was on my second towel by the time we finally got to the seated positions, since my first towel was completely soaked. I made sure to place MY towel right beside my mat so that it would be within easy reach. Just as I was transitioning onto all fours, I grabbed what I thought was my towel and wiped another round of sweat from my face, even wiping over the pool on my upper lip <shudder>. As I set the towel back down, the woman next to me said, “Uh, that’s actually MY towel that you just used.” And that’s when my skin began to crawl.

Did I mention just how very bad this woman’s body odor was? And should I tell you just how sopping wet her towel was? And do you recall that I wiped my FRICKIN’ MOUTH with the damn thing??!! I wanted to vomit and throw myself into a vat of sanitizer as quickly as possible. However, my yoga teacher is very particular about when you can and cannot exit the room. And naturally, this all went down right at an inappropriate time to walk out of the room. So, I had to sit there with this random woman’s stench all over my mother freaking mug! Torture!

I yada yada’d my way through the peace and namastes cause all I could think about was getting the hell out of there and into my shower. I must’ve scrubbed my face no less than 3000 times before I finally felt like it was clean. Talk about traumatic — not only did I get my sweat on, but I also got my neighbor’s sweat on too. I guess they don’t call it hot yoga for nothin’….


No Pain, No Gain

     Newsflash: I am NOT a huge fan of forwarded emails.  In fact, I pretty much hate them, especially the ones that tell you that you’re going to burn in hell if you don’t IMMEDIATELY send them to ten of your friends right this very second.  I mean, good Lord, I have enough things hanging over my head without having to add the prospect of meeting Lucipher for dinner.  Therefore, I typically end up deleting them right away without ever even reading them.  However, I received one from a friend the other day that actually made me want to read it.  I figured it had to be good cause this particular friend also despises forwarded emails, yet took the time to send me this one.  Anyway, I thought it was absolutely hilarious and wanted to share it with you all as you will see below. And for the record, I promise that you will NOT be struck by lightning if you choose not to pass it along to someone else.  😉 


Dear Diary,

For my birthday this year, my husband purchased a week of personal training for me at the local health club.  Although I am still in great shape since being a high school football cheerleader 43 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.  I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Christo, who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swimwear.  Friends seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started!  The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

Started my day at 6:00 am.  Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Christo waiting for me.  He is something of a Greek god– with blond hair, dancing eyes, and a dazzling white smile.  Woo Hoo!!

Christo gave me a tour and showed me the machines.  I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today.  Very inspiring!

Christo was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.
This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!!
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door.  

Christo made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air, and then he put weights on it!  My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile.  His rewarding smile made it all worthwhile.  

I feel GREAT!  It’s a whole new life for me.
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it.  I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals.  

Driving was OK as long as I didn’t try to steer or stop.  I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot.

Christo was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members.  His voice is a little too perky for that early in the morning, and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying.

My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Christo put me on the stair monster.  Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?  Christo told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life.  He said some other shit too.
Asshole was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl.  I couldn’t help being a half an hour late– it took me that long to tie my shoes.

He took me to work out with dumbbells. When he wasn’t looking, I ran and hid in the restroom.  He sent some skinny bitch to find me.  Then, as punishment, he put me on the rowing machine — which I sank.
I hate that bastard Christo more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic, anorexic, little aerobic instructor.  If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

Christo wanted me to work on my triceps.  I don’t have any triceps!  And if you don’t want dents in the floor, don’t hand me the damn barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich.

The treadmill flung me off, and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher.  Why couldn’t it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Satan left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today.  Just hearing his voice made me want to smash the machine with my planner;  however, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.
I’m having the church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over.  I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for me that is fun — like a root canal or a hysterectomy.  

I still say if God had wanted me to bend over, he would have sprinkled the floor with diamonds!!!

Sweatin’ To The Yogies


     Last week a friend of mine asked me if I wanted to join her at a hot yoga class.  I’ve been doing yoga for a couple of years now and have always been curious to try the hot classes, so I said sure, what the hay.  (If you’re not familiar with the concept of hot yoga, it’s done in a room that’s heated to 95+ degrees.)  I had no idea what the hell (pardon the pun) I was getting myself into, but three classes later, I am totally and completely hooked.

     When I attended my first class, I felt like I’d stepped into a sauna as soon as I walked into the studio.  The windows were literally dripping wet with humidity, and I immediately began to sweat.  As we moved through all the different poses in the class, I quickly realized that this was no freaking joke — I was absolutely drenched from head to toe, as was everyone else in the room.  I’ve never wanted to get naked so badly in my whole entire life.  (Sorry, honey.)  That Nelly song kept running through my head — you know the one, “It’s gettin’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes.”  I restrained myself, though, and kept my clothes on.  I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.  Nevertheless, when I left there, I felt strong, I felt powerful, and I wanted more.

     So, two days later, I went back for my second class.  This time, the tiny room was even more crammed-pack with yogies, and everyone’s mats were right on top of each other.  We’re talking not much more than a measly inch in between each one.  Lucky for me (or not so lucky, depending on how you look at it), some nice woman scooched over just a tiny smidge so I could squeeze in next to her.  Little did I know, however, that this good samaritan decided to go au naturale and forego deodorant.  Do you have any idea how awful it is to do a wide-angle forward fold into an ass that reeks to high heaven of B.O.?  It’s not pleasant, let me be the first to tell ya.  I was choking on my own vomit throughout most of that hour and a half, and I’m pretty sure my nose had just shut down altogether by the time class was over.  But even despite the stank that was embedded in my nostrils for the remainder of that day, I still had a deep-rooted craving to do it all again.  

     People say you either love the hot yoga or you hate it.  I just so happen to love it.  In fact, I even ended up buying a pass to sweat my ass off even more regularly there. And my husband seems to be particularly pleased to hear that I’m ready and willing to try new things.  I’m sure that’s what prompted him to email me a coupon for an introductory pole dancing class yesterday.  I’m thinking he might just have some ulterior motives though….

Gym Freaks


     When I go to the gym, I am there for one reason and one reason only — to work out.  I’m not there to socialize or pick up dudes or strut my stuff. My mind is generally pretty focused on the task at hand (especially since I’m always on a tight schedule), but there are times when I can’t help but do a double take at some of the sights I see there.  Good Lord, some of the characters that parade through that place are truly in a class all their own.

     First, there’s a woman that I refer to as “Bacon Lady.”  This woman must spend hours upon hours roasting herself in a tanning bed, because her skin is so leathery and brown that she should be sitting next to a big plate of scrambled eggs.  And it’s hard to tell how old she might be because all those UV rays have made her look like she’s a hundred.  For the life of me, I can’t understand how she could possibly think that looks good.  All it does is make me have a sudden craving for breakfast food.

     Then, there’s the man I refer to as “Circus Dude.”  This guy has created the most insane-looking workout, where he combines acrobatic moves with synchronized dancing and yoga poses.  Talk about bizarre.  He’s jumping, he’s leaping, he’s spinning, he’s making a complete ass out of himself. When he’s in the middle of his performance, every head turns in his direction to try and figure out just what in the hell he’s doing.  I keep waiting for the ringmaster to come out and turn our attention to the center ring.

     Then, there’s the ultimate cheeseball guy who I refer to simply as “Meathead.” This dude is constantly checking himself out in the mirror in between weight sets. He slicks his hair back and arranges his eyebrows, and I often see him doing boxing jabs so he can check out his biceps in the glass.  And he’s not at all nonchalant about it either.  He actually looks around to make sure that someone’s watching the “gun show.”  Hate to break it to ya, Meathead, but you should really think about giving people their money back cause the “show” is not at all impressive. 

     Then, there’s “The Flirt” who tries WAY too hard to be funny and to impress all the ladies.  This guy will literally jump on a machine next to you to try to carry on a conversation.  He pays no attention whatsoever to the fact that your Ipod is blaring, and you can’t hear a single word he says.  He continues to crack his stupid jokes and tell his stupid stories, all while you’re slaving away on the elliptical, trying to get your sweat on.  Perhaps his name should be changed to “Clueless.”  

     And finally, there’s “The Package,” the guy who wears ridiculously tight leggings that advertise that he has a ridiculously large package.  And he’s not just walking around in the gym in this get-up either.  Oh no, no, he’s jogging on a freaking treadmill, while things are wiggling and jiggling and flipping and flopping all over the damn place. And trust me, it is not a pretty sight to see, and as much as you want to look away, you just can’t. It’s kind of like a train wreck.  You just can’t help but stop and stare.  Somebody needs to get that boy a jock strap STAT!

     I never know which one of these odd balls I’m gonna run into on any given day at the gym, but I always come face to face with at least one of them.  I guess it does make for interesting scenery, since the gym can be pretty dull during the winter months.  Wow, can you imagine if they all showed up on the same day?  Bacon Lady, Circus Dude, Meathead, The Flirt, and The Package — now that’s one hell of a freak show!