I’m Funnier Than the Average Bear

12:04 am · category: Body of Mine, Yogi Me at Yoga You

Alternate Post Title: “Why My Yoga Instructor Hates Me”

I love my yoga class.  I love it so much that I go even if I just ate a giant bowl of black beans and brown rice and will produce so much gas that I could power a small third-world country throughout the hour-long session.  I love it so much that I’ll go even if my arms already ache tremendously from lifting fat-ass dogs all morning.  I love it so much that I pay the extra sawbuck so I can go to all the classes rather than just the one for which I’m registered — even though I’m unemployed and can’t really afford it.

And I need my yoga class.  I knew that already, though, because I’ve seen my strength and flexibility increase dramatically over the last four months.  I’ve experienced the joy of sleeping straight through the night like a normal person.  I’ve felt better about my physical self and finally garnered the gumption to get off my ass to slowly sculpt my 5K Ass.

But my need of my yoga class became especially apparent in the last couple of weeks, because my instructor has begun to reference my Type-A personality in class.  And there is, of course, no arguing with that assessment.  I am a Type-A personality; my harried visage is probably on a Type-A motivational (or de-motivational, as it were) poster somewhere.

But there’s been a real emphasis in my yoga training on not being in competition with your classmates, and I’ve taken it to heart.  My only defense is that I want to be the best “me” I can, rather than the best in the class.  So I’ve channeled my competitive nature into being in competition with myself.   I will not rest until I can do every single pose with the “good” burn rather than the searing pain.*  I won’t stop pushing myself until I can breathe properly rather than whimper when I’m doing any of the poses that engage my stomach muscles.  And while I won’t do anything that hurts me, I’ll be damned if I quit working my ass off before I master the monkey pose.  We’re not even up to that point in class yet, but it’s my goal, dammit!

That said, I guess my weird-ass personality can be a bit disconcerting.  I vacillate between not speaking at all and bitching rather vocally (or grimacing visibly) about the poses I hate.  (I’m thinking of you, anything-involving-my-non-existent-ab-muscle poses.)  And I sometimes accidentally-on purpose turn my yoga class into my own personal comedy store, wherein I try out my new material.  (I miss teaching in that respect.  Teenagers are always a good audience.)

So I’m sort of dreading tomorrow’s yoga class, since this is the email I just sent my yoga instructor:

“My yoga clothes don’t have pockets, so I tucked a couple of aspirin in my sports bra before leaving the house tonight.  (I’m all the time losing stuff in there.  It’s like a black hole.  One time I found Stephen Hawking nosing around under my areola with a telescope and geiger counter.)  My intention was to take the aspirin on the way, but then I forgot all about it.  When I got undressed at home I could find only one aspirin, which was sort of dissolved around the edges by my boob sweat.  I don’t remember doing any inversions tonight in class, so I probably lost it when I was standing on my head in the smell-good aisle at Walgreens afterwards.  (I’m kidding!  Probably.  I don’t remember doing any inversions at Walgreens, either.)  But you might want to do a visual scan of the carpet before class tomorrow in case the place is littered with acetaminophen.”

*I have never actually had a searing pain in yoga class, because I’ll push myself just to that point without actually going there.  But I have had the strange experience of my ears “stopping up” — like when you drive into the hills or are on an airplane — in inversion poses so that I have to equalize the pressure.  That was kind of weird.

Note that my yoga studio is called Yoga You.  Hence, my Category descriptor of “Yogi Me at Yoga You.”

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