The art of yoga has long been celebrated for its positive effects on the mind, body and spirit. From the obvious (improved flexibility, muscle tone, relaxation) to the not-so obvious (massaging of internal organs, increased awareness of an impending disease, certain sexual benefits), it’s allllll good. I, myself, have become quite addicted to the ancient art, and in my trips to the Petri dish of humanity we call the yoga studio, I’ve made some observations.
If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.
Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.
The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.
Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.
For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).
Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.
Namaste.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
"More to Love"? Ehh...
Like the inability to look away from a bad car crash, I watched ABC’s new series More To Love last night. Let’s dive in, shall we?
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
Disturbing Facebook
Facebook is on a slippery slope to hell. Disagree? Lend me your ears, child.
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
Ode to the [Almost] Mid-Twenties Crisis
Oh, 23, you are a cruel, cruel mistress. Not allowing us to be rid of the raw youth and freedom of college, and not letting us graduate to the polished and sophisticated life of an adult, you are the puberty bitch of the 20’s. It would be really great if someone could draw the proverbial line in the sand in certain situations.
Example: Is it weird to still be listening to rap music? I find myself in my business attire on my lunch break jamming to South Park Mexican. The collision of the two worlds is jarring. Maybe I should put on something safer, like Brad Paisley. Or maybe I could compromise with something appropriate yet still a little edgy like Sheryl Crow. You know what?? I’ll just turn off the music altogether and just be alone with my thoughts for a while.
Are beer bongs still allowed? Probably not on a work night, right? No, on work nights I drink wine like a lady. On the weekends though, I enjoy finding creative ways to drink out of unexpected items, including my sister’s cleavage. Again, that familiar internal struggle plagues. Is this awesome and hilarious, or slutty and disturbing? Help.
Meeting guys. In college, there were two types: the type that would hand you a watered-down lemon drop with sugar on the rim and a shit-eating grin on his face, or the type that wouldn’t even bother to ask and would shove a tequila shot and a lime into your hand, casually winking and saying, “This one’s for you, baby”. The second guy was automatically a stud, and that was about all you needed to know about him.
When you’re 23 you meet a guy, and the internal struggle beings. While you’re nailing it on the outside, batting your eyelashes and making witty jokes, the battle rages below the surface. Ughh why did you have to go to school in Ft. Collins? He’s drinking a White Russian—sexy or weird? Why are his hands wet?? He is so tall. Should have worn heels. I KNEW this wasn’t going to be a “flats night”, just drinking beers with the girls! Whatever, I’m getting drunk, I think I’m gonna do it! See you in the morning SUCKERS! What? You girls are getting a cab? Fuck it, I’m coming with. Yeah! Definitely call me!! (BYE FOREVER). And just like that, an entire night of hard work is thrown away because doing ski jumps off the couch and sleeping in your own bed sounds better than waking up hung over with a stranger in the Ballpark Lofts.
So what’s a 23 year-old gal to do? How do we make the graceful transition from college to adulthood? Answer: do seemingly adult things with underlying motives. Have “cocktails” at your place before the bars so you can listen to rap with your friends and make that ass clap in the comfort of your home without being judged. Create a “dinner club” which is really just a reason to eat cupcakes and get drunk on a Monday night. Join a softball team, which allows you to oogle the goods on the opposite team without ever having to decide whether or not to go home with them.
And when that strategy doesn’t work and your 23 years seem to be working against you, just remember: soon you’ll be 24 and just one year away from being a quarter of a century old. 23 doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?
Example: Is it weird to still be listening to rap music? I find myself in my business attire on my lunch break jamming to South Park Mexican. The collision of the two worlds is jarring. Maybe I should put on something safer, like Brad Paisley. Or maybe I could compromise with something appropriate yet still a little edgy like Sheryl Crow. You know what?? I’ll just turn off the music altogether and just be alone with my thoughts for a while.
Are beer bongs still allowed? Probably not on a work night, right? No, on work nights I drink wine like a lady. On the weekends though, I enjoy finding creative ways to drink out of unexpected items, including my sister’s cleavage. Again, that familiar internal struggle plagues. Is this awesome and hilarious, or slutty and disturbing? Help.
Meeting guys. In college, there were two types: the type that would hand you a watered-down lemon drop with sugar on the rim and a shit-eating grin on his face, or the type that wouldn’t even bother to ask and would shove a tequila shot and a lime into your hand, casually winking and saying, “This one’s for you, baby”. The second guy was automatically a stud, and that was about all you needed to know about him.
When you’re 23 you meet a guy, and the internal struggle beings. While you’re nailing it on the outside, batting your eyelashes and making witty jokes, the battle rages below the surface. Ughh why did you have to go to school in Ft. Collins? He’s drinking a White Russian—sexy or weird? Why are his hands wet?? He is so tall. Should have worn heels. I KNEW this wasn’t going to be a “flats night”, just drinking beers with the girls! Whatever, I’m getting drunk, I think I’m gonna do it! See you in the morning SUCKERS! What? You girls are getting a cab? Fuck it, I’m coming with. Yeah! Definitely call me!! (BYE FOREVER). And just like that, an entire night of hard work is thrown away because doing ski jumps off the couch and sleeping in your own bed sounds better than waking up hung over with a stranger in the Ballpark Lofts.
So what’s a 23 year-old gal to do? How do we make the graceful transition from college to adulthood? Answer: do seemingly adult things with underlying motives. Have “cocktails” at your place before the bars so you can listen to rap with your friends and make that ass clap in the comfort of your home without being judged. Create a “dinner club” which is really just a reason to eat cupcakes and get drunk on a Monday night. Join a softball team, which allows you to oogle the goods on the opposite team without ever having to decide whether or not to go home with them.
And when that strategy doesn’t work and your 23 years seem to be working against you, just remember: soon you’ll be 24 and just one year away from being a quarter of a century old. 23 doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
