I just wrote a long, boring post about my impending mid-life crisis. I was picking apart turning 40 - again. It was excruciating and needed to be deleted immediately. You can thank me later for sparing you. I wish I could save myself, but I suppose the depth at which I'm taking this introspection is needed? WTF already. Does it all have to be so goddamn soul searching?
I will tell you about my new aerobics instructor though. I'm taking Step, actually, which is the aerobics of the 90's. Only a few of us are still in love with Step and the others have evolved to Thai Boxing and Pilates. I went to a gym to which I was a member in the OC but hadn't ventured to the LA branch yet. The gym was mellow, not a meathead in sight to my relief, and I spotted what seemed to be college students and struggling actors past their prime. I fit in fine. I set up my step equipment in the way, way back of the room and stared and examined all others that walked through the door. There was a mix; older, all nationalities, all sizes, three other steppers on the younger side. There was an older Asian man to my left with a comb over and heather grey sweat pants pulled very high who, before class, repeatedly did double pirouettes on two toes and landed out of it with jazz hands open. His wife was at the very front of the class, her riser behind the instructor's, and she paid him no mind. She wore a braided red head band, a leotard over her tights. Her calves were the size of ham hocks. The instructor walked to the front of the class and my heart leapt. She was about sixty years old and had had a severe face lift where I speculated if a new mouth had been created. She was a wisp of a woman, teeny tiny with shoulder-length ash blonde hair which she swept up in a scrunchy as she approached the ministage. She wore beige support hose, white leg warmers over white Reeboks and a sateen royal blue figure skating skirt. She looked as if she had shut down Studio 54 a few times back in her day, and I immediately loved her deeply. Her moves were Classic Aerobics 1980, a-reaching and a-stretching, grape vines and jumping jacks. She didn't shout in the microphone with bubbly vigor as I had anticipated, but taught the class smoothly and well, which made me wonder about her more. I can't wait to go again.
I've been sticking to that music-heavy yoga class. My regular teacher is a tall, reasonably handsome British man. His name is fantastically British --- something like Henville Greywood -- but he looks very California-ized; tan and lean, running/yoga shorts and tank. He laughs loosely all through class, at his own jokes and at the things we say. I quickly learned that yoga instructors have no concept of personal space, which surprisingly, is ok by me. Henville puts me in wrestling locks to adjust my poses and if he's ok with me sweating on him and my feet in his face, then I'm ok with it. Screw it. I have zero ego in this class and that's been refreshing. I laugh and lose my balance while goofily posing. I do try hard. Henville will say things in the microphone like, "Well, that was graceful." And he and I will laugh. The Serious Expert Types don't laugh, however, but that's ok because they are amazing and I appreciate just being able to see a perfect side crane pose from two feet away. Last Friday, Henville had a substitute. Serious Expert Types don't like that either I assume because the only two people in class were me and another beginner. The only possible way to describe this sub was that she looked like a goddess. She was 5'10" lean but not chiseled away. She had sun-streaked skinny dreads to her waist. Her arm tattoos of peacock feathers and sanskrit were barely visible against her dark skin and a flat gold nose ring shone every time she turned her head. She smelled of lavender. I blurted immediately, "I'm not very good." She said, "I'll help you." It is easier to get lost in a sea of students and struggle through your practice than the alternating attention the Goddess gave the other beginner and me. I did my best, and the Goddess leaned on me and pushed against me and pulled me through to the other side of stretches. While adjusting my triangle pose, she placed the sole of her foot against my hip as she pulled my hand towards her. With the pull and in the depth of the strech, I farted. It was an unexpected tight brreepp. There was no hiding it. Thank god the music was kind of loud or else the other beginner would have heard it too, maybe she did. I said, "Sorry," not really sure if you should acknowledge such things (I mean who farts in the presence of a Goddess) and she said calmly, "It happens all the time." I giggled through two poses though the Goddess had long moved on to more enlighteded things. During the rest of the class I prayed it wouldn't happen again. There's only so much of this Zero Ego I can take.
The Naked Truth
1 day ago