Woke up to a beautiful morning, smiled when I looked over at my beautiful Adonis of a son who slept with me last night (shhhh… don’t judge, he’s a good cuddler…), who was peacefully passed out cold. Happy and well rested, I sat up and gave a big stretch, bending my chin to my chest and… oh my God. OH MY GOD! Is that… holy shit!!
WHEN IN GOD’S NAME WAS THE LAST TIME I SHAVED MY ARMPITS?!?
Where I live… well, not out here in the spray tan ‘burbs…but the general region… there are a lot of twig-eatin’, dirt worshipin’, braless nipple draggin’ women who think au naturel is a beautiful thing. You know the type. They ride their goofy Mary Poppins bikes to their job at a non-profit, wear pumpkin colored ankle length skirts made of hemp and smell of B.O., a recent romp in the hay, and patchouli.
That reminds me of when I used to do Bikram yoga. Bikram is a kind of yoga that is practiced for 90 minutes in a room heated to approximately 105 degrees and 40 percent humidity. The result? You will sweat your balls off and if you don’t have balls your ovaries will do almost anything to escape your body and run from the balmy, scorching room screaming for mercy. There was a cute little granola muncher and her yogi boyfriend that were frikking Bikram rockstars that often attended the late morning class. As my legs were quivering like a bowl of lime Jello placed on a washer during the spin cycle and my hands unable to hold my foot in Standing Head to Knee Pose, slippery with literally GALLONS of my own sweat, those two were doing the move with expert grace while holding hands and doing pirouettes. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you know what I mean.
I noticed that other people in the class would clear the area when those two entered the studio. Silly naive me assumed it was because they were so fucking genius at the 26 poses that it was a narcissistic thing. Bikram is performed in front of a wall of mirrors and God knows you don’t want to watch your own fat ass struggling to get into Bow Pose unable to actually locate your feet above your head in order to grasp them, while little Helen Hippie Buns does it in one swift move looking bored and nonplussed.
So anyway, one day they roll in and take a place on the floor just in front of me. I’m thinking what the hell, if I have them to compare my positions to maybe I’ll learn, maybe I’ll improve. Rather than relocate to another place in the room, I chose to stay put. While lying in first savasana (basically lying there waiting for the instructor to bless you with her military cop presence while your body adjusts and relaxes in the heat) I happened to look up and for the first time up close saw Helen Hippie Buns’ feet resting mere inches from my head.
My eyes scanned up to her calves.
Holy hairy fuck! I have never seen so much fur since I walked past the grooming station at Pet Smart!
As I’m trying to process how a female homosapien could produce such a lovely mane of hair in her armpits, bad cop/Bikram instructor marches in with her headset and begins barking orders (no pun intended). If you’ve done Bikram yoga you know there’s nothing zen about it. It’s more like a military drill instructor kicking and berating your sweaty ass in the dusty streets of India. No candles, incense, or twinkly music. Think perspiration drenched death march through hell. We are up and doing poses. The room begins to steam with the additional body heat being generated. And then the fan in the corner oscillates, passing in front of Helen Hippie Buns, with me quietly cussing my way through the poses just behind her.
Um. Ew. Just… wait… what IS that?!… EWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Three poses into the 26 pose set (that you have to hold twice so make that 6 poses into 52!!) I realize why the room shifts position when Helen Hippie Buns and her faux yogi loverboy join the class. It’s not narcissism. It’s not intimidation at their mad hot yoga skills.
It’s eau du granolette. It’s the new Italian fragrance from Composto Pileano.
It is full on gagworthy.
What girlfriend has in mad hot yoga skills, she completely lacks in the basic skill of BATHING. You know. That really complicated shit you teach your kid to do when he’s, oh, I don’t know… FOUR YEARS OLD?! The girl can probably go frikking spider monkey in an intensely challenging yoga class that kicks most everyone’s ass but she can’t fucking handle a bar of SOAP?!
Not to mention I’m pretty sure loverboy had given her a lovely, spiritually connecting morning of tantric sex prior to coming to class… if you know what I mean.
Somehow I managed to make it through that gut wrenching 90 minutes. I recall holding my breath every time the fan passed our direction. How I didn’t pass out from lack of oxygen or nausea I’ll never know… the human body is an amazing machine. An amazing machine that sometimes needs a shower, a bar of Irish Spring, a bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo, and a Venus razor blade, for Chrissakes.
Well, heck, this post went totally rogue on me. When I realized I needed to shave my armpits it inspired me to write a post about the wonderful parts of living manless… instead, I introduced you to Helen Hippie Buns and probably scared you away from ever trying Bikram yoga. But if you do…. avoid the hairy girl.