My mom always told me to try new things no she didn’t. She said new things can kill you. I think she was talking about drugs but whatever, all I heard was stick to the usual, which is why I spent 25 years thinking orange cheddar was the only kind of cheese. Last night I tried something new anyway. A threeway with my husband and a ghost. But before that, I went to my first hot yoga class.
When I told Mom I was going to hot yoga, she replied, “What is a hot yoga?” I was too lazy to tell her the truth, so I told her it was a kind of warm yogurt. Which sounds kind of dirty. The thing is, I kind of expected hot yoga to be kind of dirty! Come on, you gotta admit “hot yoga” sounds pretty porno. In fact, you probably only clicked on this post because HOT YOGA was in the title and you were hoping to see some downward facing doggy style action, you big giant pedo.
But instead of grinding around on a mat and doing crazy crotch aerobics to Shakira, I got a chance to lay in my own pool of sweat that streamed endlessly from my big, stupid face.
Maybe it’s a ginger thing, but I only sweat from my face. It’s very attractive, obviously. I especially love the sweatstache, and the beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks like hot tears. Here’s a picture of me from about halfway through class.
My whole body was wet with perspiration, but not because all my body parts were sweating. It was that whore called gravity, channelling south my river of salty face juice, which collected, conveniently, at Lake Vagina. I left home with 47 freckles and came back with 39, swear to god. And a pond in my panties. It was closest I have ever gotten to touching my lady taco with my tongue. Believe me, I have tried.
There may have also been some lactating going on. I really couldn’t be sure in the soupy mess. At one point, while bent over at the waist doing the human suitcase, I thought I tasted something sweet trickling into my mouth, but I’m told my sweat tastes like strawberries, so maybe it was just more sweat.
So let’s back this baby up for a sec. See, I was a hot mess even before hot yoga started. I WAS ILL-PREPARED OKAY? I can pack a diaper bag like a Hollywood nanny, but apparently I cannot handle a list of basic supplies: yoga mat, water bottle, towel.
I couldn’t find my yoga mat. I mean it’s huge and bright pink, how am I supposed to find that?
On the way downtown in the car, water spilled out of my water bottle and completely soaked my towel. I dried the towel with the vents in the car, continually steamed up the windows, and almost drove through Coffee Matters which is absolutely not a drive-thru.
And when I got to class, everybody whipped out their ginormous beach towels to cover their entire yoga mats TO KEEP FROM SLIPPING ON THEIR SWEAT, while I plucked out my lovely wee facecloth. It was a hand towel at best. A hand towel for someone with midget hands. No, midget hands are chunky. This towel was for mouse hands. Fidel goes to hot yoga.
My sister-in-law and niece snickered at my teeny towel. Bitches be neglectin’ to specify the size the towel should be when they invited me to this class and gave me THE LIST FROM HELL. But I dished it back by laughing at my niece who was totally unchallenged by these yoga poses, being all bendy and 18 years old and shit. Bah, sucks to be her. Bet she can’t wait to blossom into an old, rickety-ass fence and actually challenged by things.
Class started with everyone lying down like murder victims – body relaxed, eyes closed. I guess we were supposed to be releasing all our tensions. I was trying to remember what else I needed to buy on the way home, besides toilet paper. The sweat started pouring out of my mugshot right away, without even moving a single muscle. Clearly, I was in for some fresh hell. But it went okay, to my pleasant surprise. I held my own. I also held my own feet and widened my crotch an extra four inches. As if I needed a more gaping groin. (Insert pic of baby girl’s giant melon.)
Hot yoga might just be my jam. My hot, sweaty, strawberry jam. The place smelled like a spa in Switzerland. The floor was a cool, grey texture and I wanted to lie down on it immediately — like, in the porch, where people would trip over me, that’s how much I loved the floor. Instructor Tiffany was friendly and funny and didn’t say a word when I handed her my health form waiver thingy that said I had scurvy. And I managed the poses pretty well for someone who spent most of 2014 eating candy from the Bulk Barn to combat morning sickness. (Gummy worms make pretty babies so shut your hole.) I’m pretty sure I broke my ass doing the “prepare your anus” pose, like ya would, but I’ll be fine. I have a couple extra asses to fall back on, at least.