Yoga
Wendy Vega

I recently began doing yoga at the local gym. It’s a new year. I need to chill out. Everyone else is doing yoga, too.

I hoped all the resolution makers had quit.

I waited until the middle of January. I’m hoping all the resolution folks had dropped out and enrolled. I wish I could say I enjoy it, but I don’t.

First, yoga isn’t cardio. You don’t work off many calories doing yoga. Still, while you’re doing yoga, you aren’t eating. Call it a draw.

Problem is, all I think about during yoga is where I’m going to eat when I’m done. I feel guilty for not doing cardio, but the machines are so dirty, covered with male yuck. I can’t deal with it. Mostly, I’m lazy and cardio is too much like work.

Second, yoga is boring. I lie there doing all these outrageous stretches and poses. I want to scream, “Is it over yet?”

Furthermore, I am not a pretzel. Move on! Okay, inhale. Now exhale.

I could have sushi after. Wait, I’m trying to watch my starches. I guess I could do sashimi, but it’s too expensive. Inhale.

I could get Thai, but they use too much sugar; I’m watching my sugars. Gawd forbid I should become a diabetic. Ouch, is that my sciatic nerve? Nor do I wish to be overweight. Exhale.

I could have a Waldorf salad.

How about salad, I could have Waldorf salad, with loads of walnuts? Nah, I don’t eat greens anyone else has touched. Speaking of which, I wonder if the yoga mats are clean. I must remember to bring antibacterial wipes next time. Inhale.

Third, I just spent $200 on yoga gear, which this gym doesn’t use. Blanket, strap, block and mat carrier, items I don’t need, as I’m using the germy mats, here at the gym. The list goes on. I even bought yoga socks.

They say, “Om,” every five seconds; not really, but they should. Speaking of “Om,” what’s that all about? Is it a mantra? I already had a mantra assigned when I did Transcendental Meditation (TM).

Regarding that TM manta, I misheard when someone assigned my mantra. For twenty years, I was telling my father to beat me. Inhale.

Hey, my inner thighs don’t do that! They did when I was younger, but that’s a story for another day. Now they don’t. Exhale.

What’s with this heat? I’m menopausal. I’m always hot enough. Didn’t that Bikram guy recently get into a world of hurt for bopping his disciples? Exhale.

Gwyneth Paltrow hates me and we never met.

I can’t believe Gwyneth Paltrow likes this crap. Then again, she’s making millions with a line of yoga wear. What does she care that I ache? Inhale.

Okay, where was I? I think they have no carb pizza at the Larchmont Pizzeria. Wait! How can a pizza have no carbs? Doesn’t that make it soup? I bet it’s salty. I must watch my salt. I don’t want to develop high blood pressure, which is why I’m doing this stupid yoga, in the first place!

In yoga, there are positions named after both dogs and cats. I don’t see my cats doing yoga, but perhaps they partake as I sleep. Dogs will do anything for a belly rub.

Why am I planking, I'm not building a new home?

What is planking? Doesn’t construction involve planks? Why do I have to pretend to be a plank?

I have plates in my left wrist, which resemble planks. I cannot plank! Yet, I do, which is okay for a minute, but now they want me to raise my right leg. What am I, a dog?

Now I’m on three legs and my wrist hurts so much more. Now, the instructor says, “Lift your right arm.” Are you kidding?

I’m exhausted. I haven’t done anything! Screw it. I’m leaving and having pizza soup. Namaste, suckers.