Momz invited me to go with her to her beginning yoga class this week. I was ambivalent to say the least.
For one thing, momz is a tea-drinker. She will only drink one particular brand of tea that she has to order directly from Britain and if she doesn’t get to have that afternoon tea at 4:15 sharp, she turns into some deranged hybrid of Judge Judy and Hyacinth Bucket (PBS shout-out, whatwhat!). This is all to say that where she runs her life by the clock and is the kind of proper person who schedules her scone consumption, I am the exact opposite in every way. I drink coffee. I nurse hangovers like I’m tending to a young Hemingway at the close of World War I. And if I don’t have to schedule something, then I won’t.
So it’s likely that while I’m swearing under my breath at yoga, falling out of each position and casting perspiration over half the room, momz will be quietly growing in her mortification, pretending in her mind that she in fact does not know this hirsute stranger next to her who seems to specialize in f-bombs.
Also, there are other factors to be considered. For one, momz goes to a fitness club that’s frequented by women who generally fall into two categories: 1) older-but-well-preserved and 2) hot-as-hell younger. She also knows a number of the trainers who fall into the latter category. This is to say that I will flirt mercilessly with all of them.
Like with her hairdresser and her pedicurist, I will likely ask them out on dates. After these women get to know me, they’ll of course begin to hate me. Then they’ll start to feel awkward around momz, as they wonder how such a charming lady could’ve spawned such an intolerable, self-centered turd-blossom.
I’ll beg them not to hold my existence against momz, but you know how these things go: the damage will have been done.
Finally, I should also mention that yoga has a certain sorcery-like effect on my bowels. It works farts out of me that have been lying dormant since 1989. One of my “early-era grunge” yoga farts is roughly equivalent to a thousand joules of super-hybrid brussel sprout/cauliflower fart.
Knowing that I’m not the only one makes me feel okay about expressing this here. I’ve heard terrific farts come out of some of the most waif-like old ladies ever at the yoga studio.
Those farts helped me understand what the Great Depression must’ve smelled like.