Thursday, August 11, 2005

Our House Is Cursed

I went to Bikram Yoga this morning with maliavale, who was awesome enough to share a gift certificate she had gotten with me since she won't get around to using all of them before she leaves us for greener pastures.

We took a few pilates classes together at the Y, but then stopped. Last week, while she was murdering me with an abs routine, our old class let out and I confessed that I never really enjoyed it that much. Sure, I could feel my muscles working, and it was nice to stretch out. But I just can't be zen like that. I don't get the high from yoga I've heard other people talk about. I can't quiet my mind and stop thinking about random things, people I know, stories I heard, stuff I have to do. I wouldn't characterize myself as particularly stressed out, but I just don't want to lay in a room staring at the ceiling for an hour. My mantra is, "I could be doing stuff (inhale) I could be doing stuff (exhale)..." I barely tolerate the time I'm doing weights in the gym, because it's only about 20-30 minutes of my time, and the promise of somewhat flat abs is a powerful lure. But I can't wait to get on the cardio machines and start reading a book or magazine.

So, anyway, maliavale thought that despite all that, I'd like to give Bikram yoga a try. I guess there are two things I keep trying, despite the fact that they never do much for me. One is salmon. I can't seem to convince myself that it is the nastiest, fishiest fish in all the sea, so about once or twice a year, I try a piece and then remember that it still sucks. The other is yoga.

When I arrived at the studio this morning, I had to sign a release. That was my first clue that I was in for some hardcore yoga action. The room is heated to 105 degrees and 60% humidity, so pretty much like doing yoga outside in Vegas without drinks, fliers full of large-chested women you can hire or the promise of hitting a jackpot. Then they told me that no matter how much I wanted to, I was not to leave the studio because the difference in temperature from studio to lobby is so great, it would kill me on the spot.

As we were laying on our mats waiting to start, I mouthed to maliavale, "It's not so bad!" Probably should have waited until I started moving before making that statement. It wasn't long before I was completely covered in sweat, my hair and clothes were drenched and you try holding onto your sopping foot, pulling it back behind you, balancing on one leg while keeping your knees locked and keep your eyes on the ceiling, abs in, hips forward, don't forget to breathe. Actually, of all the yoga classes, it was the most fun, if only because I found a new mantra to focus on: "Don't throw up, don't throw up."

I'm not sure I'd regularly pay to torture myself like this, but I'd certainly go for free again!

Anyway, so, I drove home with my jelly legs and arms and went back to bed. I slept for an hour before I opened my eyes and saw a wasp hovering above my head. I'm this close to pathetically wailing "WHY ME??!!!" like Nancy Kerrigan. This crap has got. to. stop.

The Mr., my hero, was actually home and leapt into action. And not his usual, "Aww, I'll just catch the little bug and send him back to his little creepy bug family" action. He freaking whipped out the bug spray and slaughtered the little bastard on our bathroom floor. Master bath, not guest bath, the scene of prior carnage. He's awesome.

What's next? Locusts?