Yesterday my yoga DVD came, because I've decided to become one of those yoga women. I'll be all sinewy and lean, like Madonna only less gross.
My Tracy Anderson DVD is great, and I lost 10 pounds using that thing, but I got plantar fasciitis when I did the cardio part, so then I gave up doing the cardio because cardio is overrated, with its stupid heart-healthyness and burning dumb calories and all that needless oxygen pumping through your blood and so on. So then I was only doing the half hour of strength training, and figured I'd get all muscle-y and bulky, maybe meet Martina Navratilova.
And while I love the half hour of strength training, all of a sudden I got this twisty-hip feeling every time I stood up. It was as if my hips had just clicked out of place, like I was a Mrs. Potato Head and you hadn't shoved the tops of my legs into my potato just right.
So that was sexy, me getting up from my chair at work and wriggling to and fro trying to get my hips back in my potato just right. It kind of hurt all the time.
My conclusion is that I am old, and perhaps I should not be doing this workout, with its pushups and planks at the same time, which I don't think is even possible, but I was trying to think of Tracy Anderson's more ludicrous demands. You should see her when she does this stuff. "Lie on the floor, turn sideways and lift up, using only your ankles to hold you aloft. Raise your right hand to the sky while you do needlepoint with your left hand. Pen a note to your mother with your left toes, using only a fine-point fountain pen. LIFT your chest to the sky, so when your heart gives up and bursts out of your sternum, it hits the ceiling. Remember to breathe."
The whole time that heifer is telling you this, she is doing it too with the most blank, I-could-do-this-all-afternoon look on her face that makes you want to take your foot and stab her in the neck with your fountain pen.
So, yoga. Gentle, forgiving yoga. I did a lot of research, and by "a lot of research" I mean I was on Ned's couch the other day looking at my phone and I Googled "beth hatha yoga" and this DVD came up, so I ordered it.
Beth hatha yoga. I hate myself. BEST. BEST hatha yoga, is what I meant to type, and I picked hatha because when I was lying here last week dying of a migraine, I read hatha yoga is good for curing them. So okay. Anyway, I went on Amazon and clicked once and I wish I could tell you how much I love fricking efficient Amazon, and any time another site pisses me off (place where I make my Volkswagen payments) (place where I'm paying off my doctor bill) (MeetCougars.com) I think, "Why can't you be like Amazon?"
I ordered my DVD on Saturday, and on Tuesday, it got here. I would marry Amazon. June Gardens Navratilova Amazon. Yes.
"I'm going to become one of those yoga women," I told my dogs as I ripped open the package. They seemed to take this in stride. Edsel just likes anything I do that involves me lying on the floor, so he can commence with the plunking his smelly dog head on top of me and waggling the rest of himself in a desperate, ecstatic manner. That's his cardio.
I got my yoga mat out, which is covered in cat claw marks, namaste, and put in the DVD. The thinnest, calmest man you have ever seen in your life was standing in front of an ocean. Ima go out on a limb and say "Pacific," seeing as he was claiming to be in Hawaii. For all I know he was in Uganda. But he said Hawaii, and he was one of those people who pronounce it "Haw-waaa-eee" all chopped up like he's choking on a little pollen.
"I'm Tamal Dodge," he serened at me, looking like he's never been pissed off a day in his life, even though he's gone around with a name like Tamal Dodge since day one, allegedly. "I've taught yoga since I was a child, and I'd like to teach you right here on this grass in Haa-waaaa-eeee. Let's begin."
And in about five minutes, I was lying on my side, lifting my arm to the ceiling and needlepointing with the other, and I felt my hips click out of their potato.
Son of a bitch.