I realize the purpose of yoga is to quiet the mind and soul, but I own one of those spider webbed minds of anxiety that lacks the dexterity to let thoughts be. Instead of focusing on my downward dog, my thoughts ping around like a pigeon stuck in a subway station. After climbing five flights of stairs in a maze like stack of slender corridors that inspire feelings of despair in never seeing daylight again, I arrived at a light-filled loft overlooking San Francisco. These are the thoughts loitering in my mind while everyone else is namaste-ing and exhaling in loud breathy moans that sound like my neighbor’s sex life.
1. Wow that man is skinny.
Really, really skinny. Not even in a hipster, you-be-on-top-in-the-sack sort of fragile-skinny, but in a way that makes me want to feed him the bacon from an entire pig. I wonder what his preferred sexual position is…and what his sexuality is for that matter. His shorts are the same length of some of my most appalling granny panties. Is that….a butterfly tattoo?
2. Am I the only one?
(While downward dogging). Am I the only individual in this studio with sweaty palms and without Lululemon on? My fingers are sliding off of the mat like fingers do while grasping the edges of cliff, except instead of death I only have the personal space between skinny bones and me to fight for.
3. Are you fucking kidding me?
“This may the very last plank we do tonight, I’m not sure, life is uncertain, you must decide if you will do it with all of your might,” the instructor states in a slow and certain yogi voice that can only be mastered after talking aloud to oneself for months. I decide to plank with all of my might until my abs are shaking on the outside like they do when they are digesting a salami sandwich on the inside until the instructor signifies us collapsing. “Alright. Now we will do one more plank.”
4. I can see your scrotum sweat.
There’s nothing in my line of vision besides my own mat and my neighbor’s who happens to be wearing very wide-legged shorts. I notice his back is sweating and I notice a steady rhythm of drops that are falling onto the mat through his shorts. Through his boxers, through his shorts. It can only be his sweat from the nether regions of a man’s trousers known as the ballsack.
5. I could make a coat out of my missed, unshaven ankle hair.
Is that toe hair growing out of my pinky toe? My ankles must also be quite the trouble spot, as there is practically an inch long hair growing out from my ankle. Maybe I will add this to my “Reasons You Don’t Have A Boyfriend” list.
6. Does anyone in here know CPR?
Who would give me CPR right now? Who would I want to give CPR to me? The yoga instructor is kind of a babe and I’ve always been curious about women, but my lesbian curiosities fall short to my preference of facial hair, especially beards. If I actually needed CPR I suppose it wouldn’t matter who did it.
7. I do NOT feel like a happy baby.
Does anyone else feel like less like a “happy baby” during happy baby pose? Is anyone else more of a mad baby? A sweaty baby? A hungry baby?
8. Slut Statuses
I wonder who is more slutty, the girl who buys the morning after pill mid-weekend, sandwiched between romps to save money on the cost equivalent to a birthday dinner for someone you don’t like very much , or this girl next to me. I think I can see her labia hanging out of her shorts.
9. What will I eat for dinner?
Dinosaur chicken nuggets or Taco Bell?