I made the ludicrous decision to get out of bed early this morning and attend a hot yoga class (anything before 11 on a weekend is pointless. What? I don't have kids yet. Jealous? I thought so).
So first off...what is up with the notion of sharing not just space, but BREATHING space with dirty hippies? I, of the Lulu Lemon persuasion (matching top to band on pants, yeah, you know it), perfectly painted toes (economy you can bring me down, but my toes shall go on goddamnit) and death glare pointed toward anyone who talks to me before my morning coffee, was not amused by my surroundings. Nor by the fact that the instructor asked me to "fasten my spiritual seatbelt."
Dirty, sweaty floorboards and a filthy little fucker with bacne, fuzz in his armpit hair (and not just there for all I know. Shudder) along with a box of Kleenex that he propped right up my in my personal space (I used a purple block to shove it on to his mat "by mistake"). Why the need for tissues you may ask? Could our shower-challenged yogi not bring a towel with him to wipe off the sweat? Well it seemed that someone had a fever this morning, or so I gathered from the beet-red color his neck and face was turning, not to mention the disgusting sound of sucking in his own snot that he made every minute on the minute of our 90 minute class.
One is meant to focus in such classes. Think happy thoughts and breathe in and out. Meanwhile I spent an hour and a half repeating one word over and over: Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu. Swineflu.
It's over now. I've had my 10 cups of coffee and Clorox bath and feel like myself again. Cranky and averse to any enlightenment whatsoever.
Good morning everyone.
A very clean,
June
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