Cat. Cow.

(That is actually not a picture of me.)

I started participating in hot yoga classes back in February after I pulled my back out.  I’ve done it a couple of times a week since.  And yet, there are parts of it I still don’t get.

The instructor implores us to breathe.  But I do that almost all the time, even when I’m not in class.  But it is a major focus for her.  She not only wants us to breathe, but she wants us to breathe loudly.

“Take a deep breath in, totally fill your lungs, all the way through to your pelvis (how do you even do that?).  Now blow it out!  Let your neighbor hear you.”

I don’t like other people’s breathe.  It should be personal.  It’s been all inside you.  Yuck.  Keep it to yourself I say!

One guy came into class late last week and was breathing so loud I thought he was on a ventilator.  Rude.

And some of the positions she puts us in.

Happy Baby pose: Lie on your back.  Pull your legs to your chest and grab your feet.  There is nothing happy about that pose to me.  It is actually Sad Baby pose when I do it.

Down Dog:  Make a “V” with your body.  Feet behind, hands on the ground in front of you.  Stay there for an endless amount of time while the instructor stands tall and watches you suffer.

Gorilla:  Bend over at the waist.  Stand on your hands.  Like literally, put your hands, palm up, on the ground in front of you and then put the soles of your feet on your hands.  The worst part of gorilla is that now your hands smell like your feet for the duration of the class.  For those of us who wear loafers without socks in the summer, it is not a pleasant smell.  Not at all.

We do butterfly, pigeon, dragonfly, frog, and sphinx.  Oh, and don’t forget cat and cow which are actually fairly simple.  The only problem I have with those are that I want to make sounds to accompany the pose.  Meow.  Moooo.  Meow.  Mooo.  She WOULD NOT like that.  So I suffer in silence, listening to my neighbor’s breath.

They also use language that for a non-yogi, is difficult to understand.

After class I ask Julie, “What is Thin Casa Mow?”

“Ah, that’s Vinyasa flow.”

“Well I was close…”

Apparently Vinyasa is a kind of yoga or something.  Flow is a series of yoga moves.

My favorite is when we stand tall, Tree, holding our arms in the air.  That one I excel at.

You’d think I’d like corpse, that’s at the end of class, on the floor.  You lie on your back with your arms out by your sides.  Palms up.  Eyes usually closed.  But it reminds me of being at the doctor’s office.  I’m afraid someone is going to run in and try to take my blood out of my arm veins.  So I keep one eye open – just in case.  I hate it when they take my blood.  I feel so vulnerable.

So I started hot yoga in February because I pulled my back out.  Last week in hot yoga, I pulled my back out.  What the heck?  I can’t win.

What’s Hangin’?

DJ had spring break two weeks ago, Michelle was off last week, and Stephanie is off this week.  This schedule does not lend itself to much meaningful family time.  But we are getting our money’s worth out of Netflix!

Last Tuesday, to entertain Michelle, her grandmother took her to a YMCA yoga class.  That evening over dinner, I asked about her experienced.

“Oh my Gosh!  You’re NOT going to BELIEVE what happened.”

She was clearly appalled.

“Do tell,” I insisted.  As If I had a choice.

“Well, I was in the middle of my cat pose in Nana’s yoga class, and this old man walked in.”

“Yea.”  I could only imagine what happened next.

“And he squatted down right in front of me.”

“And?”

“And, well, his… ah… his, you know…”

“No.  I have no idea what you’re trying to say.  Just spit it out.”  She was flustered.

“Well, his, his BALLS fell out of his short-shorts!  Right in the middle of class.  During the CAT pose!”

As if it would have been more acceptable during Downward Dog.

“He had clearly just come from the pool because he was wearing his bathing suit, which did NOT have a lining, and it was WAY too short for him, and at one point I think he knew he was dangling because he tried to cover himself with a towel but it didn’t work, and it was disgusting!  I almost threw up.”

I myself have seen those same balls, I’m sure, in the Y locker room.

I think there’s an age for men, maybe 75, 76, where you a) stop buying new clothes that are appropriate for the times and your body type and b) you just don’t give a rats behind who sees your business.

Lisa and I went to St. Bart’s for our honeymoon.  It’s an island in the French West Indies.

Neither of us spoke French.  In fact, Sunday – Thursday I drove the wrong way down a one way street  into the town of Gustavia each day until a native cursed me out waving his hands up and down as we nearly ran into him.

“Connard!!  Americain stupide!!”

Because we couldn’t read any of the signs on the island, we were quite surprised to discover that our mid-week beach excursion was clothing optional.

We drove our rented jeep up to the parking area and sauntered out to the sand.  There was no one in sight, so we set up shop.  We were dressed.  I pulled out some Goldfish and a John Grisham novel when much to our surprise an older gentleman and his wife walked up in front of us, opened up their beach chairs, and promptly pulled down their pants.

Yes, like Michelle’s experience, his business was right in my line of sight.

I leaned over to my wife, “If we’re gonna stay here, I’m gonna need a drink.”

“Or a blindfold,” she quipped.

This is not the vision I had of a nude beach.  I was expecting Baywatch sans bikinis.  NOT The Golden Girls and their dates.

There should be a penalty for nudity after a certain age.  And I include myself in the “certain age” category.  At this point, no one wants to see me nude in a fully lit place.

There becomes a point in one’s life that more clothes are better than less.  There are no exceptions.  It’s just a hard and fast rule.

If you’re over 30, maybe 35 for some, you’ve hit that point.  Cover it up!

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