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It all started with me trying to tie my shoe. I had my foot propped up on the staircase when Sailor Man started in on me.

“You can’t touch your toes, can you?”
“Can so.”
“Oh, really? Prove it. Prove right now your not going to be a withered, crippled 60 year old woman some day.”

Bastard.

I really can touch my toes, it just involves lying on my back and resting my knees on my chin at the same time, so it’s not like I’m crippled or anything. I just never bother to practice and not for any particular reason. I don’t have a beer gut, I’m not in a full body cast, I just never thought about it.

But Sailor Man had a point, so I observed a yoga class this weekend. Not participated, observed. My secret being that I actually attempted this before. Abject humiliation if ever there was. I couldn’t touch my toes there either. That class kicked my ass so badly, I could hardly move for three days.

And insult to injury, I was informed that I needed to learn how to breathe. Breathe? What do you mean I have to learn how to breathe?!  I breathe all damn day. I breathe in my sleep I’m that good at it. My future as a yogi did not bode well.

But I realize now, I approached the whole process completely wrong. I usually research things before I try them and yoga was something I went into completely cold. I was ill informed of the process and lacking a translator.  So this time, I decided I would observe and see what I was up against. I would be Margaret Mead studying the rituals of the Tribe of the Yogi or in its’ scientific term stretchus bendibus americanus.

Yes, of course I’m joking here. It’s not that I have anything against yoga, or yogis, or being flexible. I really would love to be one of those bendy twisty sort of girls in sporty comfortable clothes who smile and look so serene as they stand on their head and multitask their day. But I just have no patience for it. It’s yoga  and it’s so, so, well, how do I put it? Freakin’ boooooring. Oh my dog, it’s soooooooo verrrry boooring snnnnnnnnnzzzzzzzzz.

And the music is boring too. You know, bells and chimes are all well and good and yay multiculturalism, but I mean would it kill them to play a little Guns N’ Roses to liven things up a little?

And someone please explain to me how being able to stand on my hands with my knees on my elbows is going to assist me in my quest for world domination?

So I surreptitiously watched the class for an hour (Oh, honey what are are you doing with your foot there? Yikes!), took some notes on words I didn’t understand and slinked off before someone caught me. I have research to do. I need to learn about mats, types of yoga, and poses (not to be juvenile, but the idea of a “downward dog” just sounds kinky-weird to me). I will not be caught unawares next time I encounter the tribe. I’m a weightlifter. I can bench 185, dead-lift 300 and squat 350, in weight conversion that equals 1.5, 2, and 2.5 yogis. I think I can take them should things get violent.

I guess I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this, but we’ll see. 

When my husband asked me how class went, I honestly answered him that is was very educational.  

  

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