I can't do that.
I'm built, as my mom so gently phrases it, "like a brick shithouse." Can't get enough of that. I work out a few times per week, although I don't run because I have a bad back (honestly, the magnitude of how little my external age matches my body's functionality is staggering). I like exercising not only because it feels good afterward, but because I can sweat profusely and it's completely appropriate (unlike on the subway in winter or in dressing rooms at H&M).
Logically speaking, I should like yoga. It hurts, but in a good way. The intense stretches make me feel like a rubber band, and anything which likens me to an inanimate object is something of which I highly approve. The physical benefits of yoga are invaluable, as well, and the ending meditations add a cathartic balance to sixty minutes of attempting to introduce my inner thighs to my collarbone. But the yoga classes I've taken recently have consistently made me feel as if there exists an invisible force whose only purpose is to keep me from continuing.
First of all, am I the only person for whom yoga equates to feeling as if I've just downed seven cans of beans? As someone whose medical knowledge barely extends beyond harboring a fear of Operation as a child (the game, not the surgical treatment...although that, too), I can only imagine that adding pressure to so many different parts of my body forces air pockets to be pushed, thusly providing me with endless moments during which I gather enough will power to retain the humiliating, barely inaudible "ph-weeet" (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about). If I'm not careful, I, myself, will be forced to clean up after the Downward Facing Dog.
Ursula, one instructor whose class I mistakenly took recently, was not necessarily at a level "comprehensive" enough for someone like myself. However the question begs to be asked, at what level must anyone be to endure being shrieked at by Ursula, a tiny, lithe Russian woman with a heavy accent bathed in the classic "Elmer Fudd" speech impediment? Mistaking my name - Eliot - for "Aaliyah" (pronounced "Aaw-yeeh-ah"), I proceeded to ignore Ursula throughout much of the class, merely thinking it fun to hold my Baby Cobra pose next to a girl whose parents unknowingly named their daughter after a marginally talented future R&B songstress almost three decades ago.
I'm no Kiehl's fanatic, but I find it enjoyable to apply an overpriced, unnecessary cream to my body every now and then. However, like most - I'd assume - I prefer to do so myself. My hands, my body. So, naturally, I was uncomfortably baffled when, during the aforementioned meditation that ends each yoga class, I found myself, eyes closed, back to the floor, at the hands of the instructor, who had taken it upon herself to begin massaging an unknown cream or oil into my forehead, cheeks, neck, and shoulders, all of which were, by now, damp with sweat and the stench of a baby's soiled diaper combined with processed meats (my natural scent). My immediate reaction, of course, was to gasp with fright before digging the hole even deeper with a warbled, "That tickles!"
And so, between uncontrollable gas, indecipherable foreign jabber, and the fear of spiritually-invested molestation, I have found solace in an old friend: the step machine. However, the next time I pop a Gas-X, I'll think fondly of the Downward Facing Dog.
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