Tibetan Twister

179.6 lbs. I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT YESTERDAY, GODDAMMIT!!!               AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO SPIKE????

FUCK!

Normally, an hour spent in yoga with Lila would have restored my nonchalance (“HA! YEAH, RIGHT!!!! YOU HANDLE THESE WEIGHT SPIKES ABOUT AS GRACEFULLY AS THE FIRST ROUND AMERICAN IDOL CONTESTANTS HANDLE GETTING ZOTZED!!!! WE READ THE BLOG, REMEMBER??”).

So, in anticipation of a calm, stress-relieving yoga session emphasizing breathing to activate the para-sympathetic nerve (or something like that. Look, usually, I ‘m upside down looking at the view between my thighs when we’re told about this breathing. You want I should be taking dictation?) which calms and centers the breather. That and the gentle stretching that goes on (not pushing too hard because there’s a difference between stretching and tearing and boy Howdy, you can feel it instantly) were what I needed.

Did I get them? Not so much.

No Lila. The Universe, as it is demonstrating today, has a particularly cruel sense of humor. The rise of Sarah Palin is proof.

NO, instead we had the Yoga Nazi (not to be confused with Col. Hans Landa. THAT instructor would have been infinitely preferable).

The music was the first hint that something was amiss. It wasn’t the usual quiet, meditative background sounds. In fact, I found it was damned annoying, but it raised a red flag.

First of all she started off with “I trained the trainer, so I know what I’m doing.” RED ALERT!!!! DANGER, DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!! SHIELDS UP!!!! (Thereby referencing two 1960s science fiction shows to make my point) When the instructor starts off by giving you her credentials, you are in for a world of hurting because her ego is in the driver’s seat.

Then, we hear “I teach a multi-level class.” Oh yeah, right, I just bet. “But you should really push yourself to advance.” Loose translation: “I’m used to teaching advanced and I am not about to change my ways for a bunch of newbie losers like you. I’m only here to pick up an extra paycheck.”

We (the usual suspects. Actually, the class was like a great paint job: NO DRIPS!!) were expecting our usual session of hatha yoga (combine breathing and pose/movement). Nope, Ilsa the Yoga Nazi hit us with vinyasa, in which you are constantly moving. Don’t get me wrong: vinyasa is fine and a great workout, but it’s like attending a concert expecting Yo Yo Ma and getting The Sex Pistols instead (with a live Sid Vicious).

First of all, Ms. “I Trained the Trainer” didn’t have the Sanskrit terms for what we were doing (Lila always does) and she was hitting us with “Sunflower” and “Crocodile.” WTF??? We’ve never heard of these terms. Crocodile was her term for the low end of a Chadaranda push-up right before pushing up into Upward Dog. It took us a minute or two to figure that one out. Since Lila has told us several times that she  was trained in the Sanskrit terms, the sub’s credentials just got questionable.

She hit us with push-ups. Two times it was “Give me 10.” Lady, would you like to know where I want to put your 10 push-ups?  I did them to the best of my ability, mindful that back East, my friend Annie has thrown down the gauntlet for me to complete push-ups as she believes this is a key way to strengthen. I suck at them, Annie, okay? I can do a ton of other stuff, but so far, the push-up just plumb evades me.

And, and, Ilsa had the gall to refer to a couple of the poses (when we were allowed to stop) as “yummy.” UUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! PEOPLE OF AMERICA:  The ONLY time it is appropriate to use the term “yummy” is when you are trying to con a six year old into eating broccoli. It is a kid’s word (so is “tummy”). Can those of us over the age of, oh, I don’t know, TWELVE, de-infantilize our speech? Jesus, people, no wonder there are so many rug rats over the age of 2 with pacifiers clamped in their jaws. GROW THE FUCK UP.

But I digress. When you are dripping so much sweat that your footing on the yoga mat becomes precarious, NOTHING is yummy unless someone’s waving a Tanqueray and tonic in your face. Not that we got to stay in those positions for so long, mind you.

How do I know this woman was a bad fit for the class? The “big” guys, the young men of carefully built muscles who have the strength to pull off the more challenging moves off the bat, were FALLING OVER. Trust me, when they hit the ground, you hear it. I got a peek behind me in Downward Dog and they weren’t happy. I know, fellas, I know.

I tried to mentally change gears to go with the (vinyasa) flow because, after all, it’s yoga and it’s good for me and it’s something new, maybe I’ll like it. I should have applied the mindset I have for things like eating frog’s legs and snails: I don’t have to try it to know I don’t like it. However, as the class progressed, I was so stressed and wound up that if she’d laid a hand on me to adjust, I would have snarled at her at the least. As it was, I was actively plotting her death.  Untraceable to me, of course, but prefererably something  where she was found tied in a inexplicable knot lying in a pool of her own sweat and a sign saying, “So is THIS yummy?”

However, I am not a savage.

I overcame my urge (several of them, in fact) to roll up my mat and leave. I was there for an hour and by the Great Horn Spoon (no, I don’t know what it means, either), I wasn’t going to wimp out.

The hour ended with Shivasana (the Corpse Pose. You have to earn it) and then, the usual sitting up and hands to heart center, she thanked us and “Namaste” (Yeah, I’ve got your Namaste right here, Bitch), then blew out of there like her ass was on fire.

Lest you think I am a minority of one and just plain bitter, there was no small amount of satisfaction in hearing the other Usual Suspects voice their dissatisfaction with the class and instructor, among other things, the class was not meditative (If I’m getting increasingly pissed off during class, then no, it’s not meditative).

However, it was an hour, it’s over and everybody survived. Should her body turn up somewhere twisted into a pretzel, you didn’t hear it from me.

My Advice? You Want MY Advice?

178.4 lbs. Two days ago, it was a big WHOO HOOO! Today, it’s old hat.

Due to learning/mastering a new job, I have been off-line. Anybody going through withdrawal symptoms, sorry about that. However, I need to earn money for gym fees and Trader Joe’s runs.

I nearly got kicked in the face during yoga class yesterday. No, the Drip Sisters didn’t return. It was another young woman with the runway poker face (supermodel wannabe). The room was wide open, but she had to set up within “smell my feet” range of my mat (which was already there because I got to class on time). The next non-Susan foot that comes near my face is getting yanked or slapped. I don’t care if it creates a ruckus in class. And yes, we were breathing and stretching to reggae, Pearl Jam and George Harrison again. Anything Beatles makes me smile (unless it’s Cirque du Soleil: I find it creepy and too European. Plus, I don’t pay beaucoup mega big bucks to see anything French Canadian unless it’s wearing black and gold and skating for the Bruins).

I have several friends who are also working on their fitness (and I’ll bet anybody reading this who isn’t working actively to improve fitness has at least 1 friend who is). One was telling me about hitting a plateau and asked me for suggestions for breaking it. Even though this person is a HUGE Looney Tunes fan, I didn’t recommend the Dynamite Diet that I threaten under the circumstances. Rather, I suggested that he vary his exercise routine with something like swimming. I find it amusing that people are asking me what they should do about diet and exercise. To the dipshit in the parking lot who told me I was angry because I was overweight and the discussion board jerkoff who called me a “fat fucking whore” because I could write better than he does: kiss my lily-white ass, you gomers. I’ll bet you’re both still miserable human beings.

Oh, and no, I won’t go swimming myself. It completely undoes my nail polish and I work HARD to put that on and get it right. Even the steam room erodes it. If OPI (What so proudly I hail. Best  nail polish and products in the business) comes up with a waterproof nail polish, I volunteer as a test subject.

The inner thigh flaps are rapidly shrinking. When in Forward Fold (Utinatasana?), I noticed I can see slivers of daylight between my  thighs. This makes me eligible to wear corduroy without risk of starting a fire.

The waist that I thought I saw a few weeks ago is becoming a reality. It’s very shy: I only get a glimpse of it from time to time. However, unlike Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, I WILL prove that it exists.

The arm flaps are slowly tightening up. I blame myself for the slow progress: I should be working my triceps harder than I do. I’m supposed to be developing my push-up ability, which depends on good triceps and chest muscles. Clearly, if I’m referencing this as “supposed to be”, I’m not doing it. Yeah, I know: I said doing a push up was a goal. Annoyed sigh. I’ll work on it; stop nagging.

When I get to the 50 lbs. down mark (174.6 lbs, or 3.8 lbs. from where I am now), I will get measured again. Until, then, I’ll just keeping trying on those size 12 jeans to see if I’m getting closer to successfully zipping them.

Another aspect I’m really enjoying with respect to this is watching my BMI drop.  It has gone from 35.4 to 27.9. Granted, I will be eligible for group medical insurance through my job, but if I have to buy my own insurance, I know from ugly experience that the first thing a company asks you is how much you weigh and your activity level. And then, the computer turns you down if it doesn’t like the answer. Who needs an actual exam and a blood chemistry panel when you have an algorithm? Suck it, United Health Care, Blue Cross and Aetna.

The necessity to measure and record everything I put in my mouth has had a couple of unintended benefits: 1) it does make me more mindful of what and how much I’m eating. My Net Diary essentially imposes a budget of calories and although exercises allows it to be stretched, it’s not a blank check. I’m striving to hit certain nutritional markers (daily recommendations of fiber, calcium, fats, protein, etc.) and there’s not much room for things like ice cream or a cheeseburger. 2) Cravings for things like chocolate and cheeseburgers have largely died. Partly because I’ve corrected whatever part of my brain demanded them and partly because I don’t want to blow out my calorie budget for the day with one snack (Whoever at McDonalds or Burger King thought to market their products as “snacks” is probably some evil little skinny vegetarian marketing drone (which makes him evil anyway) who, like a scientist in a bad 1950s sci fi movie, has vowed to destroy humanity) and 3) I’ve been cash strapped lately and being mindful about what I’m eating and how much has allowed me to stretch out my food supply rather than the panicked gobbling I used to do when faced with a money/food shortage.

I’m heading into this holiday weekend with reason to celebrate. I doubt I’ll wake up nearly 4 pounds lighter tomorrow morning (but that would be SWEET!), but I’m in a lot better shape than I was on the Fourth last year. And I’ll be taking the pictures to prove it.

Fierce Chairs, Drips and Bob Dylan

180.2 lbs. Not a word. Not a bloody word.

By the way, the “G” in Kenny G? Yeah; that stands for “GAG”! THAT is jazz like Britney Spears is hard rock. Monk, Davis, Gillespie, Brubeck, People. 88.1 KKJZ or www.jazzandblues.org online. Consider it homework. There will be a quiz. Duke Ellington? Extra credit.

Interesting sighting this morning: the actual edge of my rib cage. YES! I never thought I’d see it again and had been investigating the cost of putting its picture on a milk carton, but when I “fully engaged my core muscles” (formerly known as “sucked in my gut”), there it was! Well, the outline of where it will be. Nobody’s going to mistake me for Kate Moss, but at least I can see things that are supposed to be there and not just in my imagination. Happy dance, happy dance!

Well, I am stiff and sore in some interesting places. It was Yoga Day, aka Tibetan Twister (with an element of “Simon Says,” apparently. Never work ahead of a yoga instructor. They don’t like it).

Lila likes to start her class off with an invocation (just something else about her way of doing things that keeps me coming back) and told us that today’s class was about joy. I am usually quietly joyous in her class because I so enjoy being there.

There were the usual suspects and there were the usual greetings of “How’s your shoulder?” “That color looks great on you,” “Are you going to hit the Early Bird at Denny’s?” (well, it’s a mixed age/mixed ability group). We were settling in to our usual spots and  oh joy, we are joined by about a half-dozen young women with noses in the air and who promptly set up camp at the front of the room and blocked my view of Lila (Remember, when it comes to learning yoga, I am Monkey See, Monkey Do. The more polite term is “reverse engineer.”) Lila even had to move one of them out of her spot. I had to interrupt my practice because one of these stuck-up floozies set up camp so close to my ALREADY ESTABLISHED mat that she nearly kicked me in the face.

And thus, we had our first round of Competitive Yoga. How do you play? Simple: it’s regular hatha yoga combined with looking contemptuously at the other students in the class. Oh and don’t make eye contact, don’t smile. Lila talks about our “sweet energy” that we bring to the room and they definitely didn’t have much sweetness.

Whatever. That’s their deal. I felt FANTASTIC after class. Seriously. I needed it. My upper back has been knotting up like a Boy Scout earning a merit badge (they used have to earn merit badges in tying knots, you know. How old are you? What are you doing here?) Given the tension I’ve been experiencing, I needed this. I needed it badly.

I was ready for standing poses today. I even practiced a bit before going to class. I could actually grab my foot and jam it into my crotch while standing. Yes! Grab my toe and extend my leg? Yeeeeah, not so much. But when we hit that Tree Pose, I was loaded for bear and ready to go.

Nope. Somebody cut down the forest. No Trees. A lot of Chair Pose, though. WE are told to "tighten up the perineum" while in Chair. Honey, I'm way ahead of you. Perineum, sphincter, anything to keep from interrupting the class.

How about this: Half Moon? Never heard of it? Let me enlighten you: get on all fours. So far, so good. Extend your right arm, palm facing inward. Okay. Now extend your left leg. AND HOLD. Just when you’re ready to go back to all fours, the new instruction comes: “Now extend that right arm to the side like you’re signaling for a turn and extend that left leg so it’s parallel to the arm.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????? My wrists and shoulders are already screaming!!!! And this is the point where I nearly got kicked in the nose.

But, of course, if you’re advanced in your practice (I am not. Let’s just be clear. I am not an advanced yogi), you can always pull that leg off and really extend the right arm. Reattaching the leg is part of the vinyasa flow, especially if you can do it in Dancing Warrior (balanced on one foot. Not the one you removed).  

What made this even more interesting was the musical background. Think it’s going to be sitars and chanting? A little “Gandhi” soundtrack with a dash of Ravi Shankar? Not so much. We regularly stretch and breathe with Pearl Jam. No, I’m not kidding.  And the Beatles (which, if it’s “Here Comes the Sun” with George Harrison it just works. Come to think of it, we get a lot of cuts from “Abbey Road”). Today, the sound system cut out for a few minutes and cut back on with…Bob Dylan. Yeah. It was a slow tempo but, God love Bob, his voice has not improved with age. I caught a couple of eye rolls from the drop-in girls when Dylan came on. The regulars were desperately trying not to make eye contact with each other to stave off giggle fits (We’re bad. We’re really bad).

To emphasize the joy, along with the Pearl Jam (I have to investigate because the songs she chose were GREAT. And they did have Eastern instruments like tablas and sitar), she hit us with reggae. It wasn’t “Jammin’” or “Iron Lion Zion”, but it worked. Of course, I found myself in Down Dog not so much stretching and holding the pose as bouncing to the beat.

At the end of the class, the Drop In Drips all grabbed their mats and headed out the door without so much as a word to Lila or anyone else. It’s a shame, really. Why go to all the trouble of attending that class and working out if you’re not getting anything out of it?

Screw them: We of the Purple Mat Platoon (and it’s a variety of shades) shall return on Thursday and try not to make eye contact during Down Dog.

I Downward Dog Dare You

187.8 lbs. Where’s that dynamite? I was THIS CLOSE to 184.6 (40 down) and I will not be denied.

You can tell a woman is not serious about her upcoming workout when she arrives at the gym wearing as much makeup as a toddler beauty pageant contestant. Today, I saw such a woman.

Checking my diary entries from the last time I had a spike plus plateau combination, it took a day or two for things to get back on track.

Don’t tell Torquemada, but I’m cheating today: I only did yoga, no hour of cardio. HA!

Since tomorrow’s going to be another monster weight training day, I figured I could slack a little bit. Only  a little bit. Part of it was a number of errands that needed to be done, part was an experiment. I’ve been frustrated with my lack of balance. I don’t expect to pass for a Cirque du Soleil performer, but I would like to see or feel a difference, you know?

Tuesday’s class, Lila had us to a shoulder stand. If you’re a kid and goofing around on the lawn with your sisters or friends, this is the one where you’re on your back and you bring your legs up and over your head, so basically, you’re ass over teakettle with your feet on the ground over your head, but since you’re 9 years old and hopped up on Kool Aid, it’s hilarious.

Not so much when you’re closing on 50. Doing it the yoga way, I couldn’t get my legs over my head. Before class started today, I thought I’d give it a shot the old fashioned way: just whip my legs over my head. I’m here to tell you that I didn’t harm myself and I could get my legs back there. I will not be doing it again though, because due to the presence of the Great White Belly and the White Mountains, I nearly suffocated. Oh sure, you don’t think about it when you’re sitting upright, but when you bop yourself in the face with your own tits and belly…

You get the idea.

There was some progress, though. My shoulders still get tired with holding arms up and/or out, but it takes a bit longer. My upper back rebels against sitting up straight for too long, but the time period before I feel the muscles start to complain is getting longer. I was told I have nice looking legs (not by a guy. They don’t notice. I am invisible to the masculine eye). All the cardio and leg presses are paying off. If only GWB would shape up as quickly…

When we got to the sun salutation, there was the transition from Downward Dog to Plank and then the option of going back to Downward Dog (which is hands in front of you, butt in the air and trying to get your feet flat on the floor. If you can do that, you are quite stretched and flexible) to Plank (which is hands under shoulder and a long sloping line from your head back to your feet, butt below rib cage) and then there are two roads back to Downward Dog: either go directly to it by pushing back (do not pass Go, do not collect $200) or do the vinyasa: from Plank, do a push-up, then bend into Cobra (legs straight out behind you on the floor, back is arched and arms/hands pushing torso off the floor). No belly flopping allowed and Lila has pre-emptively told me to take the modification and just go straight to Down Dog from Plank. Now, I THOUGHT that it was necessary to go all the way down to the floor on the move from Plank to Cobra. HOWEVER, I saw Lila do one and she only went halfway down. HA! I CAN DO THAT! I CAN GO HALFWAY DOWN ON A PUSHUP! (Don’t expect me to come back up; it ain’t happenin’) So, as we got to the right point in the next Sun Salutation, (drumroll, if you please) I TOOK THE VINYASA. You should have seen the look on Lila’s face when she saw me in Cobra. The push up was not graceful and pretty, but damn it, I got it done. Yeah, Boy! And Lila told me it was magnificent. That made up for damned near offing myself with a boob up the nose (Seriously, I know we all have to go some time, but I’d prefer not to end up as a Darwin Award).

Without the hour of cardio before class (I usually give myself about 15 minutes in between cardio and yoga), I actually could hold a Tree Pose (before class) without a lot of shaking. It was a brief, shining moment, but I could hold it and hold it steady. Part of the issue with balance is the need for an extra mat under my yoga mat. With the screwed up kneecap, I need to put padding between it and the floor. Not so good for staying steady on one foot. On the bare floor, I did all right. It’ll come, I keep telling myself.

Chair Pose (or Fierce) aka the Methane Torpedo Tube was a bit easier. I pushed myself to go a little lower in the squat (butt clenched against disturbing the tranquil atmosphere. Never eat Mexican before yoga). My shoulders gave up before the core and leg muscles did. This is an improvement. I’ll take it.

I feel a bit restless for not having pounded out an hour on the elliptical or Rotating Staircase of Death or the treadmill and that’s okay.  For future reference, do the exercises requiring strength before you’ve exhausted your muscles with cardio. That may seem like common sense, but I tend to learn things the hard way.

Like it’s better to keep your nose above your boobs.

Just Let Me Die In Peace

195.6 lbs. Yussss! 1 more pound and I reach an important milestone: 30 lbs. down.  Please pray for The Great White Belly to continue shrinking.

While pounding away on the elliptical machine today, the common Steroid Douche (douchebagus juicicanae) took up residence on the one next to me. They are easily identified by 1) the combination of skinny little legs and upper body reminiscent of a Charles Atlas ad (they were the original “kick sand in your face” guys). Naked, one would see that the massive upper body is in high contrast to the shrunken testicles (aka nuts the size of Skittles. Thank you, Mark and Brian for that one). They vary in size  and either have an exposed crest of perfectly gelled and styled hair that doesn’t move (see “The Jersey Shore”) or the crest is covered with a baseball cap, worn backwards or crooked. One frequently hears their mating calls,  bass or baritone grunting punctuated with a frequent loud barking as they finish a set and drop the (always heavy) weight on the ground. The Steroid Douche watches himself as he lifts weight, pretending he is unaware of the presence of nearby females.  Frequently seen in pairs or small groups that increase grunting and explosive “end of set” barking. This species is not to be confused with the gay gym rat (homo buffius). This particular one was singing periodically (probably to some hair metal band. He was so bad, I couldn’t make out a tune) and looking over at me to check my annoyance level. It was high. Fortunately, he left shortly, but gave me the stink eye as he did so. No words, but I know the stink eye when I get it.

Today, I reached an important non-weight milestone: the additional laundry day. From yesterday’s cardio + weight training, my clothes were still pretty slimy and nasty when I went to put them on today. THAT, my friends, is the mark of truly pushing yourself hard. They are now happily bouncing around inside the dryer, playing hide n seek with the dryer sheet.

I had a job interview this morning (results pending) and needed to pin the pants of my size 20W Tahari suit in order to keep them from falling off my butt. Now THAT was a motivation booster. That plus the lower number this morning, the lack of extreme soreness this morning (HA! Trainer/torturer! Take that!) and the icky condition of my workout clothes made me feel good. The more distance I put between myself and 200 lbs., the better I like it.

However, today’s yoga session was less an exercise in inner and outer strength and balance less than a game of Tibetan Twister. Lila was out and Rochelle came in as a substitute. This was my second class with Rochelle (of which I have completed 1.25) and I do believe the woman can actually levitate. God knows she believes in doing as much as possible on one foot. If there was ever a one-legged person capable of winning a butt-kicking contest, my money would be on Rochelle. Even if Chuck Norris was in the contest.

Whereas Lila’s classes make me feel like a yoga novice (awkward, unsure in the poses, but there’s hope), in Lila’s class, I feel like a water buffalo with the flu (awkward, large and everything aches). My mental chatter included a lot of “You have GOT to be kidding me.” The fact that the rest of the class was able to jam a foot in the crotch, hold a leg up and out straight in front of them and generally not fall over didn’t help my confidence. Even one woman, who looked like she was having as much trouble as I was, got hold of her big toe and got that leg out in front. So much for the sisterhood of the stiff.

There was one move that involved a sudden transition from being in a vee (arms on knees, rolling onto the back, then rolling forward (without going all the way over) and sweeping arms out to the side (To answer the question you’re about to ask, No, I just stayed in the vee shape and sucked in my gut. And sweated profusely). It seemed to me that there should be a “TA DA” at the completion of this pose.

Okay, so I spent some time in Child’s Pose (the facedown fetal position) and did more modifications than a bank with a ton of bad mortgage loans in the portfolio, but I refuse to be intimidated by a soft-spoken, limber toothpick who likes Sarah Brightman. I persevered and made it all the way through to Corpse pose.  Rochelle was almost as bad as Torquemada for inflicting pain, just in a more quiet and subtle way (The Pushy Peanut was busy torturing someone else today so I was able to slip past her. She gets her shot tomorrow).

I used to ask myself if I would be willing to experience extreme pain over a determined short period (like 24 to 48 hours) in order to have the body I wanted at the end of it. Well, the time period is longer and the pain is not as intense as I envisioned, but I’m getting the body I wanted. Eventually.

Your Yoga Instructor Today Will Be Colonel Hans Landa

196.2 lbs. I think I’ll let the little red-haired imp kick my ass again on Saturday.

Stretch marks. Those must be addressed. And if your thoughts automatically go to pregnancy, I have never been pregnant, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’ve never been abducted by aliens and gotten an anal probe, but those guys erase your memory after the procedure. Since a “Starsky & Hutch” episode in which everyday guys were being brainwashed into assassins with false memories, I’m not sure what memories I can trust. Yes, “Starsky & Hutch”. And you knew it was a spooky episode because they used the music that sounded like a rusty gate.

Today, we had a sighting of the Dumbass Douchebag, indigenous to Los Angeles. This particular Dumbass Douchebag (or DADB) was inhabiting the steam room at the gym. This guy brought his IPod into the steam room (Dumbass) and had it cranking so loudly, I could hear it on the other side of the room (Douchebag. And his tastes in music were execrable). In about a month, when the unit craps out, he will be arguing with the Best Buy Customer Service that he has no idea why it stopped working and how could it possibly have condensation inside? And you know, the thing will be sent back to Apple, refurbished and sold again through Bestbuy.com. The Boy Genius will probably buy it, again, because obviously, they’re only getting defective models in the store.

April 19, 1775, a bunch of Massachusetts colonists “wore any colors clothes they wanted to, shot from behind the rocks and trees and everywhere” at the British who “wore red and marched in a straight line” at Concord and Lexington. (“The Coin Toss”. Billy Cosby’s “Right” album. Genius. I’ve had that memorized for 44 years).  At day’s end, we were batting .500: Lost at Concord, won at Lexington and ended up the champs at the end of the series in 1783; they were the chumps. Today, a sweet looking little lady who likes to drive on the left-hand side of the road tried to kill a few extra Americans.

Yoga is thousands of years old. However, I distinctly had the impression of playing “Twister” while doing the Hokey-Pokey and that’s what it was all about.

Understand: I was already sore from the weight training yesterday, on top of being sore from Tuesday’s Yoga-tes with Amy. I’m pretty sure I’ll be unable to move by the time you read this.  Please send help. And Tiger Balm.

“Shall we do hip openers today, would that be alright?” sounded innocent enough. From the accent, I expected the follow-up question to be whether we wanted one lump or two. Then, she handed out straps. Pretty purple ones. Okay…

The first few exercises were a lot of breathing and stretching. Other than an obsession with things in the groin, The Dame seemed sweet and kindly enough. However, within 5 minutes, I felt like I should have checked her forehead for a Swastika-shaped scar.

The strap was to help stretch the spine for the less flexible (no Viking Biker today, but one of his club buddies was in the house). And apparently  to lasso runaway feet, because soon, we were instructed to make a loop and rope the right foot…(In hindsight, I wouldn’t have been surprised to smell branding irons) and haul the straight leg “towards our noses.”  I don’t know about you, but I believe that if the Almighty had wanted us to smell our own feet, He would have put them a lot further north than they occur naturally.

Things just went Down Dog Hill from there. From a Downward Dog, we were asked bring raise a leg to the side (if Americans had invented yoga, this would be called “Downward Dog, Hydrant Variation”) and then loop it behind ourselves “if we wanted to challenge ourselves more.” I wanted to not fall over, but there were two ringers in the class who enthusiastically “Flipped the Dog.”  (One was a guy who had brought his own strap. Judging by his enthusiastic reaction to this, I suspect he had a ball gag and assless chaps in his gym bag and answered to “The Gimp.” Probably disappointed at the lack of branding irons).  Chacun á son goût.

Another time, we were asked to “sit on those little bones just between your hips and your bottom and balance.” Yeah, about that: there’s been an APB for those particular bones since 1993. However, since I was in class for self-improvement, I faithfully made to follow instructions, had my feet in the air and hands reaching and … are you old enough to remember “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In,” specifically the guy in the Captain Snow yellow rain gear on a tricycle who would pedal a bit and then fall over? Uh huh. Yup. That was me. However, my shame was tempered when I heard an identical thud from the other side of the room.

We were on our backs and instructed to get feet in the air, knees bent, grab those big toes (where the hell is the strap when you need it for foot roping?) then rock side to side. This is “Happy Baby.” We then learned that if one is in this pose, it is called “Dead Bug” which I suppose is considerably less gross than calling the variation “Dead Baby.” It also brought up high school memories of an underground kind of art project called “The Dead Baby Calendar.” I did not participate, nor did I see it, but I heard the rumors of its existence. Small town, sick minds. If you were part of the Proctor High School Class of 1978 (the year ahead of me), you know about it, too.

I was surprised at being able to stretch and hold my legs down as far as I could. Those toning sneakers are paying off. Bending at the waist and bringing face as close to knees, on the other hand, is a bit problematic. There’s still a lot of waist blocking the way and even though I “pulled my navel towards my backbone” as requested, that’s a hell of a hike for a belly button.  Here’s a math problem for you: “If two experienced yoga students’ navels head for their spines at the same time a novice student’s navel tries to fight its way through a Grand Central Station of fat and has to stop for directions to get to her spine, who is going to pass out first?”

And with all these little “challenge yourself” variations, The Dame would periodically chirp “You’re enjoying this, right?” About as much as seeing a negative balance on the bank statement or losing my Ray Bans or getting stopped by a cop.

Nevertheless, I’m still here. I’d say still standing, but my muscles won’t take it and they’re deeply suspicious of what tomorrow may bring. I shall soak in an Epsom salt bath tonight. If you’re smart, you’ll start the pool now on whether I’ll be able to get out of it.

Twist And Shout, Part Deux

197.8 lbs. The more distance between me and the two century mark, the better I like it.

As much as it felt like Mahatma Gandhi kicked my ass (Non-violence. Yeah, right. The man WAS a lawyer) on Tuesday, the after-effects didn’t really kick in until yesterday. The guys will gross out (as they do when we talk “lady stuff”), but can you say “Aunt Vinyasa Flo”? Oh yeah. The bitch showed up after being gone for months (and I had sung good riddance).  I was ready to go Ozzie Osbourne on the first bat that crossed my path. Thankfully, I found red wine instead. The Hitching Post’s Hometown Pinot Noir is good stuff. And available at Whole Foods*.  (*In California. Otherwise, mail order it through their website. It’ll get to you in plenty of time for THAT time).

However, I would not be defeated.  Anything that contributes to breaking a 4 day plateau with a 1.2 lb. loss has my complete attention. Unless it’s swallowing a tapeworm.  And yes, I have considered that. For about 5 minutes.

Let me give you a few of the highlights here:

I felt like crap before I went into class, lower back pain, BAD attitude and a raging craving for red wine. Or bourbon. Or a 10 hour nap. Plus, it’s tax time and I KNOW I’m not due for a refund. If I had come across Osama Bin Laden before class, not only would I have been able to collect the $25 million bounty on his head, but there wouldn’t have been anything left for trial, just a few scraps of DNA for identification. When you haven’t been hormonal for months, not only are you out of practice with dealing with the extreme coaster that is the Estrogen Express (Coming soon to Disney’s newest theme park, Baby Boomtown and Adult Day Care Center), but Aunt Flo gets to behaving like a newly graduated Catholic School girl. Or Britney Spears.  Bigger swings than Manny Ramirez. And it’s the same hormone he injected.

Somehow, it was necessary to tame the raging spirit dwelling within.

However, since there’s no one I want to get away with killing (PMS defense), I might as well go back for seconds.  

Having been able to “keep up” (Look, it’s my story and I can exaggerate if I want to) on Tuesday, I was expecting a repeat today, maybe even get that foot off the ground.

Yeah, not so much. Today, I created some new poses: not so much the Chair as the Methane Torpedo Tube (toxins expelled), the Fallen Warrior and the “Oh, God, even the Viking Biker at the back of the room is more flexible than I am.” (Really, the guy at the back of the room looked like a Viking biker. Viker?) A friend had told me that yoga was a means to opening up psychic abilities. It’s true: I suddenly knew there was going to be a triple dose of Aleve in my future.

One move, involving crossing one leg over the other and twisting was called the Happy Cow. I grew up in Vermont and I’ve never seen a bovine pull off this move. And it made me crave In N Out. Double double? THAT’S a Happy Cow.

This time, we had music. I was expecting maybe some sitar and tabla, you know Ravi Shankar or even Anoush Shankar (yes, she’s real), but for a few minutes, we got Hindu rap. ABBA would have been more effective to clear and center the mind. Or Elton John with the Muppets.

I did manage to achieve healing, centering and serenity. It just took a glass of wine, some chocolate and 2 Aleve to get there.