Attack of the Pretzel People

Needless to say, the next year of my life will be wrapped up in wedding planning. Dress, shoes, flowers, venue… sigh. I’m going to be a busy little bee. And a stressed one, at that. Which means—alas—that breakouts are imminent.

 Now, I have decided that I am going to try and come up with as many ways as possible to reduce my stress (and subsequent zit explosions) as I prepare for what will surely be an epic walk down the aisle. My soon to be former best friend heard of my quest for relaxation, and suggested I come with her to her weekly yoga session.

 As much as I love her, it’s imperative that you understand that my bff and I could not be more different. I’m a “never seen an episode of Sex and the City, jeans and a t-shirt, play third base” kind of girl. I see nothing wrong with having the occasional threesome with Ben and Jerry. And she… well, she’s the kind of girl who goes to a Monday afternoon Yoga class.

 Anyhow, I agreed—against my better judgment—to give the yoga thing a try. Is there anything we won’t do to keep our bodies and skin looking good?!

 Walking into the incense and candle lit room, my curvaceous brunette self stood out in a sea of blonde stick figures like a sore thumb. My Victoria’s Secret Pink terry capris (the very same ones that had seemed so trendy just moments ago) immediately felt like a tent, hanging from what were surely the world’s largest hips. I spotted my gal pal across the room, where she was clad similarly to the other yoga bunnies in a skin tight leotard and leopard print tights.

 And then the instructor walked in—Alabaster skin, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, and not an ounce of fat on her—err him. I was so busy gawking that I barely heard the chipper little fellow announce, “Welcome to this week’s Advanced Yoga class. Namaste.”


 Wait did he (is that really a he? With those cheekbones?)  just say advanced yoga? Oh well… how tough could it be?

 I soon found out. For the next 45 minutes, I watched the rest of the room gracefully bend, twist, and contort themselves into positions that would make Jenna Jameson teary eyed with pride.

 Try though I may to keep up, I’m pretty sure I succeeded only in looking like a complete fool—and most likely spraining muscles that I didn’t even know existed before today. After class, my friend bounced over to where I lay sprawled on my mat; sweating like a woman of ill repute and waiting for the feeling to come back into my leg. She asked how I enjoyed it, and didn’t I think it was just wonderful and oh isn’t Sven the most amazing instructor ever?

 I suppose I’ll speak to her again… eventually.


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