Hot, sweaty yoga and dudes.
I’m not sure why I’m always late. Usually it’s the result of excessive daydreaming, often while staring at a computer screen. I’ll be deep into some research about, say, “the mysterious death of Edgar Allen Poe,” or “What does it mean to dream about killer whales” or “large tiger-like cats/toygers”* and then, whoopsie daisy, I was supposed to start getting ready an hour ago. And now I have to be wherever I was going in ten minutes. Commence scrambling, swearing and sweating, etc., etc.
I’ve always been a dawdler. A dilly-dally-er. I’ve done it since I was a little kid; following those little kite trails in my mind is soothing. But ok, I’m pushing 40. Time to start limiting my dawdling so that I stop pissing off my friends and pissing away productivity. Besides, lateness just leads to heart palpitations and recurring diarrhea.
Every once in a while I need to switch up studios. Sometimes I’m having a Jane Fonda kind of day and want more of an aerobics vibe. Luckily, there’s this disco yoga studio in town that offers up a lovely breadth of hot yoga. It’s the leaves-you-drenched-in-sweat-while-listening-to-a-Britney-Bollywood-remix kind of yoga. If you’re in the right head space, it can be really cleansing. Other times, it can be an actual, literal, one hundred percent historically accurate representation of hell. Depends on the mood.
Of course, I was running late and rolled into class with about two minutes to spare, which usually makes it tough to find a spot. But that day, there was a super awesome open space up by the front of the class. Sweet. I marched right up and claimed the spot and unrolled my mat and sat down and immediately realized why that spot was open. It was because it was directly next to an extremely hairy, extremely shirtless man whose hair was all white because he was definitely over the age of sixty-five.
But no big deal. I can hang. Plus, yoga grampa was impressive. Yoga grampa was the kind of guy who gets to the studio first to warm up with a five minute headstand followed by a legs-over-the-shoulder arm balance, toes spread, the whole nine yards. He was doing some serious swami shit. Poses I had never seen before. Go grampa! You show that class! You tell people that OG yoga grampa is here to stay! Tell it with your BODY, mister! God DAMN!
Class hadn’t even started yet and yoga grampa’s mat was already surrounded by what can only be described as a moat of sweat.
After about five minutes, I noticed something was terribly wrong. We were all hanging out in downward dog, doing some deep breathing exercises, when it became apparent that someone had farted. Again—no big deal. Farts happen. But in HOT YOGA? Who’s the asshole? Literally. Whose asshole committed the crime? I automatically assumed it was yoga grampa. He was over sixty-five, after all. It’s not like he has the sphincter control of a young twenty-year-old buck. Oh, yoga grampa. Sometimes he does that. So I silently forgave him with lovingkindness and moved forward with strength and perseverance.
But the scent persisted. And then it morphed. The more deep inhales I took, trying in vain to “follow my breath”, the smell had less of an egg undertone and took on a more musty, ripe note. And then, like a drunk suddenly remembering what exactly happened last night, my brain kicked into gear and I recognized the scent.
It was balls. Drenched-in-sweat, yoga grampa old man balls.
Holyfuckingshit. Like someone was aiming a powerful hair dryer at his testicles and blowing it right toward my face. From two feet away. And scientifically, that’s pretty much what was happening. His ball particles had surrounded my entire body and were floating all up in my lungs and had infested my pores and was all over my hair. Like an old man ball bath.
Things I considered doing: 1. Barfing; 2. Bursting into tears; 3. Developing old man ball deodorant; 4. Taking off my shirt and tying it around my face and finishing the class topless; 5. farting loudly in defiance and in an heroic attempt to neutralize the air quality. Instead, I stuck around for the entire hour and fifteen minutes, mouth breathing my way through all the poses, and narrowly avoiding loss of consciousness.
And then I went home and took a bleach shower.
Not my best yoga moment. Actually, it might have been the most disgusting, un-yoga moment of my life. It was more like the aforementioned hot yoga hell. I’m still getting over it. But I tell you what: from now on, Imma be on time to class.
*pulled from google search history. Not a joke.