There are few things more embarrassing than (most) Guns n’ Roses lyrics, but lately I don’t even know what embarrassing is anymore.
For starters, it used to embarrass me when my mom would call my lady friends “girlfriends”.
My girlfriends and I usually go to the lady gym three times a week. It’s nice to have the company. There’s this awful lazy scribble mural of fine, fit, purple, cartoon women pumping iron behind some of the machines and it’s nice to have one of them pretend it’s the first time they’ve seen me touch the part of the drawing that resembles a penis. When the techno remix version of Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” comes on it’s hard to know exactly what to do with my self/my face/my arms/my legs/my mind.
If my girlfriends aren’t there I’ll try my hardest to focus on an interesting piece of wall and pay no attention to the lyrics. It’s saying I just got off of work and I’m here working out, staying strong, and jogging on this platform of man hating power. He probably works hard for the money, too, but you never hear about him surviving on a measly salary made up of lousy tips.
And when I say “he” I’m obviously referring to this guy:
I went to the lady gym alone yesterday afternoon and I’m still not sure whether or not I should be embarrassed about having a great time doing Tae Bo with a handful of older women while listening to the Offspring’s “Come Out and Play”.
I kicked my leg back during one of the “moves” and nearly busted through the window with my Saucony of Destruction (Megadeth). It made a horribly loud noise and everyone laughed heartily. They laughed because nothing, and I repeat, nothing would be more funny than seeing me fly out of a 3rd story Curves window backwards in a t-shirt that reads “How’s your Aspen” while listening to the Offspring in the year 2006.
Exercising is a major part of my life now and I have a lot of fun doing it. I don’t even care if that makes me sound like a Teen Spirit commercial.
I’m attending my second hot (very effing hot) yoga class with my mom tonight. The best thing about hot yoga is that if you feel like a weak, clumsy, idiot for not maintaining your balance in an advanced pose for an extended period of time you can just cry about it because it looks exactly like the sweat already dripping down your face.
Things blend in there.
Farts, for instance, go unnoticed. The sound is muffled by loud breathing that already sounds like farts and the smell is masked by the odor of 20 humans sweating out bagel sandwiches and tofu dogs. I’m not kidding, it smells like someone put a giant blanket over the entire studio and farted so hard it brought back a secret season of Full House that never aired on national television.
Wait, what?
You do Bikram’s Yoga? Isn’t it great? I hate it when you are in that position where you are facing down laying on the floor and you get to really smell bagel sandwiches and tofu dogs.
Child’s pose!
Because it smells like a baby diaper. D:
ps- I nearly passed out in the class last night and had to be escorted to a bench. Loser!
i just puked haha
oh so you were obviously able to keep your gag response in check…?
No, I just forgot to mention that vomit also blends right in.
they used to call me yoga fart