Today was a busy day. The kids are out of school and today included three playdates and two sets of sports, all before 3pm. It’s the good kind of busy, we’re happy, the kids and I.
There was a local event here in Los Angeles that I’d wanted to attend and it was close to Mr. G’s office. I popped him an email telling him that I really wanted to hear one of the speakers, and he replied back that he’d meet me there.
I cannot begin to tell you how strange it is that Mr. G. would want to attend a speaking or networking event. I was absolutely slack-jawed, but I bought him a ticket and dropped the kids off with my mom. What I’d intended when I’d sent him the email was that he’d be home by 5ish so that I could leave him with the kids to have dinner together and I’d attend the event.
I zipped over to my mom’s house and dropped the kids off and then headed to the event. When I got in I realized that Mr G would rather slit his throat than sit in the hipster warehouse where they were serving PB&J sandwiches, milk and cookies. Although the schedule looked fabulous I couldn’t fathom sitting in a room from 7 to 10 pm with neither adult food nor drink.
So we met a few people, shook a few hands and we decided to skip out on the talks, take advantage of the babysitting and head out for a nice dinner.
As Mr G and I left the building I went to scratch my nose and realized that my entire hand smelled of cologne. Someone had just showered and shaved, gone to the event and rubbed their smelly man hands all over mine. It was nauseating, and everyone who knows me knows that I have the power of super smell. It took several tablespoons of liquid soap and plenty of hot water, yet I still faintly smell the Drakkar on my fingertips.
The hand cologne incident reminded me of why I’ve left my yoga studio for greener pastures. You see just three days ago I ducked in for a quick yoga class and had another touching incident.
First off I should have known that the class was not for me because it was some sort of yoga healing sports fusion. Which is code for I used to work at 24 hour fitness and I really need my days free so I can audition for commercials/movies/TV but I can totally put my ankles behind my head. The only types of yoga I want to practice are Hatha, Kundalini, Iyengar and Vinyasa. I don’t enjoy the hot rooms of Bikram and whatever power, core strengthening or fusion that the gyms are offering don’t do it for me.
My Sunday night yoga class was the last class of the day. When they opened the double doors to the large studio room swarms of sweaty yogis streamed out. The room was both hot and humid. Three dozen of us moved from the waiting area to the studio, almost slipping in puddles of sweat. I have no clue why I walked into that room, I can only attribute it to group think. But I walked in, I put my mat down, grabbed blocks, blankets and straps. It was a prop class.
I hate prop classes. I’ve never seen those props get washed, I’m not the type of woman that should be sharing these things.
I am trying to embrace dirt. I’ve made a huge effort to not be shrill with my kids when they want to walk into the back yard barefoot and then into the house with moist footprints clearly visible from the right angles on my wood floors. I am trying to relax and be the lady who wants to shake your hand, and to enjoy manicures and pedicures without wanting to jump up from the table while shrieking, “Stop jamming fungi under my nails.” I really do want to be that woman, so I settled into the moist yoga class.
I stayed in the yoga class with the happy balls, and I dutifully rolled them next to my spine, and then I rolled my knuckles onto my temples all the while trying to not freak out that people had been rolling these balls next to their asses, and then onto their faces. Three dozen people who want ass juice on their heads, who am I to judge?
When the instructor pulled her shirt up to show us how our stomachs should look during a pose I thought it was odd, but once again decided to let it go. When she pulled up her shirt a second time, and a third I tried to figure out if she was trying to sleep with one of the women in the room or one of the men. To be fair she had the sort of body that deserves to be naked, but I was laying in a puddle of someone else’s yoga sweat. I didn’t need to check out her I never had a baby and I spend the whole day exercising body. I was trying to focus on not getting the germs onto me.
There were a few more poses, most of them very uncomfortable, none of them familiar (I’ve been dropping in and out of yoga classes for more than 20 years, there should be no “new” poses) and then we came to bridge.
The naked yogi asked every one in the room to gather round her while she demonstrated the adapted bridge pose. She rolled her shirt up to right under her breasts, pushed her already low pants down to just above her pubic mound and invited everyone to watch her bridge, and to feel free to touch her should they feel the need.
I left. I hate leaving a class early, the last time I left a yoga class early was when I was seven months pregnant with Alexander and I realized that I was too big to do the most basic poses. I never want to be that girl.
I need a week of not touching anyone that doesn’t share a last name with me. I’ve tried to embrace the earthy part of me, but let’s face it, the earthy part of me likes outdoor dirt, not people dirt.