Namaste, Bitches

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Now that all that election foolishness is past, can we get back to discussing more important and amusing things, things like me?  Just for instance.

And what’s up in the peenee world?  Our dear friend Secret Agent Fred has taken to forwarding me artistic images he finds whilst out and about on the internet.

God bless Fred.

Also, I have resumed yoga (and can I reiterate how annoying yoga is in that no verb actually relates to it?  I’m “doing” yoga.  I’m “practicing” yoga.  I’m “performing” yoga.  Yuck.  Sounds more like I’m contemplating taking up porn.)   Anyway, I’m back on the yoga train.  I purposely did not say anything about this because there is nothing worse than announcing your plans for improvement and then you sort of drift off, but your friends remember and somebody asks “So how’s the (fill in the blank: yoga, meditation, jogging, porn, whatever) going?” and you have to come up with some lame answer that doesn’t reveal you failed to last three days on the path to enlightenment.

When R Man got sick and I started seriously taking care of him, I blew off yoga.  I wasn’t in the mood for much of anything, spinal twisty flexy things included.  But that’s been almost two years and I was stiff and achy so last month: Yoga-time!

Why yoga? Because I was one of the sissy girly boys who could neither throw nor catch anything and couldn’t sprint to the end of this sentence, I was always uninterested in physical activities until I stumbled on yoga.  I was thrilled to find out that, sincee I’m double jointed, all those bizarre looking poses are a snap for me.  Hoo hoo, take that, homphobic, moronic junior high coaches of my past.

And when does the meditation thing start?  I never have any of that higher minded crap in my yoga.  I’m too busy trying to get the poses down right so that I don’t tear my hamstring (again) and then I’m thinking “I wonder if there’s any Butterfingers left?” so not much meditation.

The only thing I refuse to indulge in is yoga classes.  I get in there and the teacher says “So now put your right hand on your left knee….” and I freeze and think “Which one is my left?  Which one is my hand?”  Plus you’re always surrounded by these skinny bitches in their Lulu Lemmon yoga togs and their tidy-ass ponytails doing all the poses just a tiny bit better than the teacher.  I know you’re not supposed to be worrying about how well anyone else is doing, but get real.  I wind up spending all my energy on refraining myself from slapping them.

So I do my yoga alone at home and just wearing a tee shirt.  I know I’m leaving myself open to a bunch of low-minded comments here, but I hate wearing pants for yoga.  There is absolutely no sweatpants in the world loose enough to be comfortable when one is trying to see how far one can bend over backwards.  Fortunately, I  have no mirrors in there so I’m spared what is probably pretty close to this:

I swiped this from MJ over at Infomaniac.  It was attached to Mitzi’s recipe, but I suspect it is actually a snap of MJ.

Goddam paparazzi.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

16 responses »

  1. I'm surprised you haven't joined one of those nude yoga classes. Or started doing yoga porn. After all, you may just find a niche market for that — as long as the Evil and Adorable one doesn't cover his eyes when he spies you freeballing all over your yoga mat.

    Like

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