Yoga and the virgin

ALERT:

There really is a GOD out there.

Last night as I was reminiscing about the fact that I deleted my last blog (total blond moron accident), I mentioned there was a post about my first yoga experience a year ago this month that was lost in outer cyberspace.

So, as I took an hour break at dinner tonight in front of the tube (again), my iPhone ping'ed.  

And old friend (shout out to Scott Rumage), emailed me the original post from last year.  

His sister emailed my original story to him 12 months ago.

And he had it saved in his email.

All these months.

My own mother doesn't archive my stories.

But she saved my Kindergarten report cards (more on that later).

Weird.

But, apparently Scott in Conneticut saves everything.

So there you have it.

God does exist.

Below is the original YOGA posting following my virgin experience.

I'm still working on my totally rad recent yoga experience post.

It's yummy.

Or not.

Photo credit via

 _________________________________________

ORIGINAL POSTING:  Feb 3, 2010
Until this afternoon, I was a Yoga virgin.  Oh how I wish I had the body I did when I was 19 and completely naïve of what Mother Nature would soon do to ravage and torment me.  Enter the reason why my friends call me Bridget Jones…Enter Yoga………

………….And, as I type this I am contemplating exiting yoga.  Though, I hate to give up on personal challenges - even when reading an absolutely lackluster novel, I feel utterly guilty if I don’t finish it, so 9 out of 10 times I do. 

First of all, like a complete “first-timer”, I showed up in sneakers and socks.  Wow, if that doesn’t SCREAM Poindexter, I don’t know what else does.  Noticing all the other folks were wearing flip-flops I pretended I had just come off a warm-up jog.  I quickly placed my mat in the back of the room (near the door incase I needed to leave like a tree).  I see two guys in the back of the room and plant myself near them.  I figure they can’t be that good at this stuff and I will look better compared to them.  Hold on to that thought….

While we were waiting for class to start I noticed people doing strange poses.  I assume they were collecting their thoughts and trying to relax before instruction began.  Great.  What type of pose was I supposed to do?  I had no clue so I pretended to fold my towel, situate my mat (again) and just stretch.  

So then we begin.  First few inhales seem easy and pain free.  I thought to myself how much easier this class was going to be compared to my initial fears.  That thought lasted about 1 minute before we begin stretching our bodies into contortions only replicated by the professionals in Cirque De Soleil.

15 minutes in ---- I am sweating my ass off (did I mention this was hot yoga in a heated room?).  I pretend the sweat is running down my face but they are tears of pain.  Real, gut-wrenching pain.    I want a cold shower and to never ever come back.  I want my mommy at this point. I want to sneak out the back door, but any forced movements outside of our instruction would completely disrupt the Zen in the room.  Speaking of Zen, my Yogi (isn’t that what you call the instructor?  Or shall I refer to as Yoda?) kept talking about Zen and breathing.  

Photo credit via

22 minutes in ---- I continued to hear instructions on inhaling and exhaling but I ignore them.  I am trying to contain my balance as compared to my classmates.  I am shaking like I am about to go into massive convulsions because my muscles haven’t been worked this hard in ages.  I couldn’t even think about breathing at that point.  I looked like an with a hit of most wretched shakes.  I felt like my legs are going to fall out from under me.  I glanced around the room and everyone appears to be in this most peaceful state in balanced positions (dog or airplane or some bullshit weird name), and I am in the back corner convulsing, still sweat-crying and trying really hard to figure out at what point I am supposed to breathe. 

24 minutes in --- the tennis bracelet I am wearing really is digging into my skin as I am now some how standing on my hands/wrists and the bracelet is now cutting off circulation to my fingers.  Is the air in the room getting thicker?  I can’t breathe at all; forget about trying to find the balance between inhaling and exhaling I am simply just trying to stay alive at this point...and not poop my pants.

30 minutes in --- my biggest fear comes to fruition.  Yoda comes over to make a point in front of the entire class to course-correct some weird funkified position for me.  I want to crawl into a Zen hole and die.  Is there such a thing?

40 minutes in --- We are doing some more contortionist positions while sitting on the mat now.  My legs are no longer up in the air so all can take a poignant view of my huge butt crack because my yoga pants are falling down.  They weren 't falling down because I bought them a size too big.  They are falling down because the sweat is dripping between my butt cheeks and down my thighs and pulling them down.  Now while I am trying to contort my body gracefully (in which I am failing miserably), trying to breath and find my own personal Zen I can’t because I am paranoid the two hotties next to me are secretly laughing on the inside at my expense.  Again, the Zen breathing bull is completely thrown out with the praying mantis or pooping dog position…or whatever…

45 minutes in ---- is this crap over yet?  Does my Yota know the gal who threaded my eyebrows when I was crying in pain from that experience too?  Does she know the person who gave me that horrid fake spray tan a few years ago?  Is karma really a bitch?  Is the universe out to get me?

50 minutes in --- Yoda comes back over my way.  She then points out (to the entire class) how flexible I am.  I wanted to scream, “Of course I am flexible at this point in the class.  I am so hot my body is melting and my limbs are so weak I could pull an Auntie Annie’s and tie them into soft pretzels at this point!!!!!”.  I politely refrain from ripping the Yogi’s head off.  Lord only knows what the two dudes next to me are thinking…gutter...mind out of the gutter.  Now I am completely mortified.  I can’t keep on pace with any of the fucked-up contortionist positions, but I am flexible???  I guess the gymnastics I took in grade school was good for something?

55 minutes in ---- Lights out, limp body on the mat and we are doing breathing and simple stretching exercises.  Thank GOD! I mentally prepare to peel myself off my mat that is now floating in my own sweat. I. AM. SO. GROSSED. OUT!

60 minutes --- Class is officially over.  I never found my Zen and never could figure out how to breathe right, but the challenge to get off the floor is becoming increasingly more difficult.  All classmates are up and about, and I am still lying on my mat and still sweat-crying.  Other students begin to bombard into the room for the next class.  I seriously feel like I just smoked the Hookah bong and have a completely paralyzed body.  Holy shiz nit, I need to get up.  Exaggerated efforts and I am up and begin to walk.  Screw putting on my tennis shoes and socks because I fear if I bend over once more I will crash head forward, pass out and be placed on a stretcher with EMTs taking me to Baylor Hospital.  I choose to walk out to the parking lot barefoot…still sweat-crying.

   

 Photo credit via

I'm AmericanBridget and I am thankful for Scott Rumage.