As I mentally prepare for this evening's Bikram yoga class, one thought keeps repeating itself:
Don't die, don't die, don't die....don't die!
No, wait, that's not it.
'Stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.'
True, but no.
'Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of bashfulness?'
Ah yes. Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare.
I have come here today to admit to you, my loyal blog readers, that I am extremely uncomfortable with the ladies locker room. All the mental and physical relaxation achieved on the yoga mat goes right out the window when I step foot into that room. Oh the nipples! The undergarmentless hoo-ha's! (I almost used the word 'bare' there, but didn't want to give the wrong impression. There is certainly nothing bare about some of these hoo-ha's.)
I realize that at this point in my life I should be mature enough to handle this. Let's just be honest, friends. I'm not even really fond of looking at myself naked, let alone Mary Lou Retton and the rest of her Bikram crack squad.
I'm sure we could work something out, fellow yogis. If you really want my feedback on the class I could leave you a post it note on your locker and sneak quietly out the back.
I'm neurotic today because...
...I'll let the sweat dry on the way home, thank you very much.
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