I’ve recently decided to go to spin classes as an alternate form of exercise and except for causing a sore vag from the seat – I have to admit that its pretty ok. (I’m not sorry for admitting that. My vagina is a tender beast)
Last night, I have to admit I developed a mild crush on my instructor for to reasons:
1. His playlist was fire (delicious South African beats, Lady Gaga, Whitney, a remake of “You don’t own me” and ABBA).
2. He vogued and made us boogie on our bikes. He probably could have said “TWERK BITCH,” and I would have tried.
The majority of the class did not have as much fun as I did. I will cop to getting down on my bike and singing really, really loudly. Also, sweating like it was my damn job.
I have pretty intense anxiety sometimes and doing things with my body publicly is more likely to send me spiraling into panic than be fun. However, this time around I felt good and for one hour I stopped caring so much.
I almost asked for his playlist, but that was a bridge too far last night. All in all it was a great 60 minutes.
Until I got home and realized that I left the hose on refilling the pool and almost flooded the yard a smidge. Oops.
Also, I know that anxiety isn’t particularly curable, but let’s just pretend.
If you have ever woken up with an invisible body sitting on your chest, then you know that you will spend an innumerable amount of time TRYING TO GET THAT FUCKER OFF YOU.
So, I decided to go to hot yoga for the first time since 2013. I remember the heat being great for pretending that I was sweating out my feelings and stuff.
And breathing. Zen. All that good shit, right? I went to the class in shorts surrounded by posh yoginis and their obligatory yoga gear. I took off my shirt because I didnt want to spend the class fighting with it falling over my head because it was too big and I suck at being prepared.
Everything started out fine. I couldn’t really breathe. My chest hurt. But it was fine.
Then I started sweating like I was in the goddamn desert in a parka. I had to go to the bathroom to wipe the sweat out of my eyes. I had no grip on my mat BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T I REMEMBER TO BRING A TOWEL SO THAT I WOULDN’T SWIMMING THROUGH A POOL OF SWEAT. That’s right. I was swimming in sweat. The teacher had to get me a towel because I was fucking up her class with my ineptitude.
Then when I finally could grip my mat. I couldn’t see straight anymore and was pretty close to vomiting. You know that feeling when you haven’t had caffeine and your body is raging against you because HELLO ADDICTION. No? Well, ok. My stomach was violently close to expelling acid because I didn’t eat.
So. I walked out 50 minutes in to a 90 minute class. I left my mat (I am sorry I knoe its bad form) and walked to the grocery store to get something to stop me from fainting. And, I am ok with that.
There was a time I would have kept going and made myself sick, but you know what? It’s not worth it.
Sometimes quitting is ok. It’s really not necessary to go full excorist vomit in a yoga class I paid for.
I spent the rest of the day with the heaviness in my chest until I started arguing about current events with hot husband. Go figure.