Just call me Sweaty McPitstains

Today was a big, fat, farmer adventure in the Bikram world for I attended my first hot yoga class in Southern California. Also, it’s been my first yoga class in about two weeks and my body let me know how just how pissed it is at me for taking so long to get back to the studio.

In short, it was brutal, and yours truly over here is to blame. My mind was swimming when I traipsed up the stairs to the small studio in South Pasadena. I couldn’t settle my thoughts — so much crap is racing through my mind and soul right now that concentration is a fucking luxury. This is one of the many drawbacks about being so damn cerebral (I know … I know … http://www.whitewhine.com..).

It’s a nice studio — for the most part — except I’m used to a much larger space like at my home studio, Bikram Yoga Andersonville. My sizest attitude quelled once I got situated in the room. The teacher, Satchi, had a very thick Japanese accent which was tough to decipher at times, but I liked her style — she knew her stuff and got after me (and rightly so) for my fidgeting between poses. I’m a major league fidgeter —  I don’t do “still” very well. My new pal, Indira, told me today that as soon as she stopped with the fidgeting, her mind cleared and her practice improved exponentially. Oh how I hope that works for me too. I think it will once I learn to leave the bullshit cerebral crap at the front door but in my defense, turning off my brain ain’t one of my strengths.

I held my own for the most part, but I still can’t do Standing Head to Knee because my core is weak.

Time to crank out planks a couple times a day and stop eating, you know, food, and I’ll have the posture under my control by the end of February.

My choice of wardrobe didn’t help my mood either — my lovely threads made me look like a pitted-out Newt Gingrich in an auburn wig <shudder>. So, it’s off to Target to purchase some yoga clothes that don’t make me look like a blowhard twink from Georgia.

You know, more like a McCrabass.

 

 

You can go home again

So I waddled back to Bikram today after about a month-long hiatus. In my defense though, most of the month I was causing trouble in Los Angeles, and the rest of the time I was too damn lazy to remove my carcass from the couch to get all sweaty and Namaste-y. Piss on that notion, monkehs, was my response to inquiries about my once-vibrant-now-non-existent Bikram practice.

However, I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer — I had to get back because I really dig Bikram, and it has helped my constitution considerably. Plus, I’m still unemployed and if I sit around the house too much, I’ll end up painting every square inch of this dump none more black, and toy with the idea of becoming a mime. Then there was the incident yesterday when I got winded using my remote. Not. Good.

Yeah, that’s a sign that it’s time to do something.

After I donned my yoga pants, bullet bra, huge t-shirt, coat and Uggs, I started up the POS rice burner of an automobile, and headed to Bikram Yoga Andersonville where I was greeted warmly by both the owner Jessica Rask, and the teacher, Liz. I have never been happier to see two people in my life — it was as if someone had thrown me the coolest life preserver ever.

It was as if I had never left.

That’s the kind of feeling one should have when doing yoga, or exercise or stripping. Simply put, it’s the feeling you should experience when you’re meant to do something. See how touchy-feely, granola-y and Prius-y I just got there? Yep, that thought kinda gave me an erection too. Just go with it folks, it’s okay.

After exchanging snark-filled pleasantries with the fabulous Stephanie Sack in the locker room (no, there weren’t any towels snapped at bare, tattooed asses, pervs), it was gut-check time. The first few poses progressed well and with little pain. I’m even making huge progress on Standing Head to Knee pose.

Not McCrabass, but close.

My back strength is still intact, as is my balance. My flexibility has regressed a bit, but give me a few days — I’ll be all bendy soon. Could it be true? Could all of this mumbo-jumbo chin music about how yoga is good for you actually be true?? I’d say that’s a big, fat, farmer YES. What surprises me is the fact I trusted something I  went into blindly. Sure, I did my Bikram research, but you really don’t know how your body is going to react to something as intense as this kind of yoga. Sure, you can read all you want, listen to testimonials of your fellow students, but the only way to really be certain is to get off your keester and find out for yourself.

So glad I did just that.

Objects in Mirror Are Larger Than They Appear

It’ll be interesting to see if I am able to compose a coherent post today. First, I did Bikram, then I came home and did some of this workout. Yes, ’tis true. I got sucked into the infomercial vortex a few days ago and since I’m a sucker for innocents named Ryan with Canadian accents, well you can figure out the rest.

I’m waiting for the required mocking to stop. Any time now would be just perfect. Seriously. Stop. Now.

As for the liking innocent Canadians named Ryan, I don’t know where that came from either. Do yourself a favor and stop trying to figure it out.

So, Bikram was brutal and I did the thing that all American women do–compared my bod to the other women in the class. Now, before you say “Not ALL women do that, McCrabass.” Um, yeaaaah…. you do. Imma gonna call you out on your bullshit. Of course you do it. Yes, stop denying it because you’re full of shit. You do. It’s okay to admit it. Comparing ourselves to our fellow American females citizens is a national past time.

Now that that’s settled, back to the body comparison. I felt good that I wasn’t the fattest in class today–or the weakest–that’s a win in my book. I give myself a lot of credit for doing Bikram in the first place since I’m usually one of the older ones in class, but I look about 8-10 years than my actual age. For that accomplishment, kudos to great genes (see photo below of mum & one of mah seesters), drinking lots of water, wearing a lead blanket as sunscreen and Bikram yoga.

The beautiful ones.

Sadly, my youthful appearance hasn’t helped me land a job, which has me forced me to set aside a plastic surgery change jar. Each day, I toss the day’s accumulated change into it, and with each ping of the coins hitting the glass, I feel safe and hopeful about my future. I should have enough scratch saved by the time I really need a facelift. Until then, Bikram, good genes, SPF 500 and copious amounts of water will have to do. Oh and probably Botox. Sometimes I wish this country was a place where women were accepted for their intelligence and wit, rather than for their dress size. I’ve harped on this subject before, so I won’t open up that old thread again since it doesn’t do any good AND it just makes me a titch sad. The thing is, I think women in this country are forced to compare ourselves to others OR we run the wrath of being labelled a bitch. I already am a bitch and am damn proud of it, so having confidence in the way I look shouldn’t be an issue for me. But it is.

Back to comparing my physical self to others. I can’t help it. I’ll be doing it until I draw my last breath. So, until that day comes … meh…I’m too damn tired to finish that thought.

Wardrobe Malfunction

It’s time to retire this shirt.

An old friend.

I got this t-shirt while working on a film many years ago. We recorded actors in NYC, and the director bought one for each crew member. I went along to help out and had a blast because, after all, I was in New York City! We stayed at the Plaza, ate at the 21 Club–all on the studio’s dime. Most important part of the trip? I got to shop at Bloomingdale’s (that’s when I made a union wage, see). How could I possibly turn this shirt into a kitchen rag?

This t-shirt one of those pieces of clothing that gets better with age–everyone has a piece or two like this in their wardrobe. The more worn out it becomes, the more comfy it gets. It was worn for sleeping, working out, and tee-vee watching. In other words, it’s a knock-around shirt. This shirt has given me wonderful memories, and it’s wonderfully beat to shit.

This morning while getting ready for Bikram, I couldn’t find a shirt to wear, so I donned my old friend, some yoga pants and headed out the door. Little did I realize how beat to shit this t-shirt was until Standing Bow. While I was reluctantly watching my form in the mirror (so brutal the sight before my eyes–I’m semi-blind now), I noticed two things: This t-shirt makes me look bigger than I actually am, AND it has HUGE holes in the pits. We’re talking if I had really hairy-scary pits, the hair would’ve tumbled out of them kinda like Rapunzel’s braids. Yep–that big AND that gross. I hoped to dog that no one else noticed. I’m sure people did though–how could one not? I notice things about my fellow students all the time–mainly the creative tats on the necks, backs and legs of those practicing in front of me. Seriously–it’s hard NOT to notice sayings in Sanskrit, Arabic and Hebrew on the same body part. I get it–your body is a peace treaty from the days of yore. Rock out, my friend.

Back to the t-shirt. For the rest of the class, or until I was no longer to watch myself in the mirror, I obsessed about how shitty this shirt made me look and feel, and came to the realization that it was time to retire it. Not only would this Large Marge of a shirt be put out to the fabric pasture, all of his little friends would join him. I just can’t keep wearing clothing that screams Slobovian because my psyche can’t handle it any longer. My body image is already poor, so why add to the misery?

McCrabass Millicent

So, Wednesday, I’m hoping to debut this little number I bought at Costco.

Coming soon: Two pigs fightin' under a built-in bra.

I hope they don’t kick me out of class, OR have me arrested for indecent exposure because I wouldn’t be surprised if the room got an eyeful of nekkid boobage. Not a sight for sore eyes, trust me.

I’m already missing my old friend. Enjoy retirement, you’ve earned it.

Stay tuned.

To the Core

It’s been a while since I’ve done Bikram. Freelance work has kept me away from everything except the newsroom and regular household/life duties. Today I went back and while it was good to be back, it wasn’t good to be back. I felt old, out of shape, stiff, clumsy, beat up, and grody. These feelings brought tears to my eyes during the standing series–a common reaction for yoga practitioners. I couldn’t let go of these feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing due to my lack of fitness and mental anguish over my professional life (or lack thereof).

I managed to push on through and have the best session I could have today. This was accomplished by sitting out some of the poses and letting the energy of the room flow over me. Yes, you read that last bit correctly–hardass McCrabass actually allowed the energy of others pierce her dark, disturbed, bitch-filled core. What’s even more shocking is that it felt pretty damn good. I just let it go–the energy came in and the tears came tumbling down. It’s tough to be vulnerable like that and I don’t care for it at all. But, vulnerability has its charms and a purpose, or purposes. I have an idea as to what they are, but I want to experience them first before I expound on them further.

Until then, let’s talk about core strength. I am in desperate need of restructuring/retrofitting mine. As a result, I’ve been researching core strengthening exercises and the most effective one I’ve come across is The Plank Sure it looks easy, but it ain’t. I figured I need to mix it up a titch more, and noticed that my friend Shannon had posted a series of plank exercises on her Google+ page. Damn. I figure if I do these exercises 4-5 times a week plus Bikram 4-5 times a week as well, my core will be in passable shape by mid-October.  Why mid-October you ask? Because I signed up for a clinic at Bikram Yoga Andersonville with Mary Jarvis in October, and I don’t care to look like an Rush Limbaugh-esque fat idiot (redundant I know)  in front a Bikram legend.

Next on the list? Researching docs who will surgically wire my jaw shut so I can’t eat. Stay tuned.

Corey Hart will haunt my dreams

For some reason, I heard this song on the way to Bikram this morning, and on the way home. This worries me — makes me wonder that maybe there’s some sort of disconnect in the universe. Who knows. However, knowing how things are with me lately, I’m sure I’ll have some sort of Ambien-induced, weird dream about Corey Hart, a bucket of fried chicken, a sear-sucker suit, pine needles and some dude named Hoke. Great — now I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight.

Class was off today. I couldn’t get it right, wasn’t feelin’ it. Half Moon really hurts the bejeebus out of my shoulder. I didn’t push as hard as usual because the pain was causing me to wince which, in turn, was causing me to hold my breath. It didn’t help seeing my “Hi Janes” in the mirror. Fortunately, neither my arms nor my hair look as bad as what’s featured in the picture, but you get the idea. Plus, that necklace is U.G.L.Y. If I’m not careful, this is gonna be me in about 5 years.

A young women directly in front of me had THE best tat on her lower back. It was of Shakespeare all hip-hopped up. I can’t find any images to do it justice. Wait, I could, but I’m too damn lazy. Tats are de rigueur in Bikram. I feel so out-of-place because I don’t have an “Om” or something else written in Sanskrit splayed on my inner-thigh, or winding up my spinal column (because you know that felt fucking good — I just hope those broads were drunk/passed out when they were getting stamped). Actually, I’ve considered getting a tat for a long time now. I go back and forth on it, but I don’t think my family would appreciate their likeness inked across my ass. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.

And, now that I’ve added a tattooed image of yours truly to your mental Rolodex, I will sign off for the day. Ciao, Monkehs.