Determined to keep with my challenge, I drug my rear-end out of this house and went to the gym at 5:15 p.m. to catch a 5:30 Pilates class.
When we arrived (daughter as well), I learned that the class was not Pilates, but Yoga.
“Okay, fine. I can roll with it”, I thought. Pilates. Yoga. Whatever. I was just glad that I was at the gym trying to keep my commitment to my challenge.
So, I go into the Yoga room to wait for the instructor while my daughter goes to hunt down a spinning class. By 5:40, she was still not there. I asked one of the staff if there was a class in that room and if maybe I was in the wrong location?
“Oh, no. Ken is usually late” I was told.
“Ken? I’m going to be doing Yoga with Ken?”
Right away I’m thinking there is something terribly wrong. Though I didn’t verbalize it, here’s what went through my head:
“A man is doing Yoga class? A man? Men don’t do Yoga. Not the kind of men I know. I grew up in the South.
The guys I knew drove pick-up trucks, had gun racks in the rear window and wore plaid flannel shirts, cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans with big silver belt buckles.
They hunted. They fished. Some of them dipped Skoal and all of them said, “ya’ll” and called you “darlin”. They did not do Yoga.
In fact, if you said the word Yoga they would probably stare blankly in your direction and ask if you boiled it, pan fried it or deep fried it.”
And for the record. I’m married to the guy in the photo. Does he look like he does Yoga? Yeah.
“Does he do an hour class?” I asked, looking at my watch and realizing it would be after 7:00 before I got home and miffed she would be so cavalier about Yoga Ken not keeping his class hours.
“Uh, yeah? She stutters.
So, by now, I’m getting highly irritated. Mainly because I had already spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out where the class was supposed to be in the first place and now, because “Yoga Ken” clearly didn’t seem to think or care that people might be waiting for him.
At 5:45 I went back into the Yoga room and saw a guy in there talking to my daughter.
“Oh, are you Ken?” I asked.
“Oh, no” he said, stretching his leg behind his back in an entirely feminine kind of way.
“Ken is always late.”
By now, I’m thoroughly convinced that not only do I not want to take Yoga with Ken, but I don’t like him either. Clearly, Yoga Ken does not have a Western view of time. Like, “get your ass in gear, buddy, we ALL have things to do” kind of perspective that typical American capitalist pigs have when it comes to time.
In fact, any guy who would choose to do a Yoga class in his after hours rather than sit in front of the television with a beer and watch football probably thinks that time is some nebulous concept that does not really exist.
You know, like, we’re just floating through the universe as one. In a highly irritating Yoga kind of way.
I was not in the mood. “I’ve had it. Let’s go” I snapped at my daughter.
On the way out, I ran into the girl who had first told me that Yoga Ken was always late. I could tell by the quick dart of her eyes that she knew why I was leaving.
Actually, it was probably a good thing. A woman in menopause should never come face to face with any guy who does Yoga.
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Laugh out LOUD funny!
Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!
I needed a good laugh.