Daily Archives: January 24, 2017

Yoga Bitch

Last year I was on my way to yoga, taking my time just cruising down the road.  A car appears out of nowhere and is now riding my ass.  I couldn’t see who was in the driver seat, I assumed it was some kid with a new license, driving their parent’s car with a lead foot.  I’m not gonna lie, that makes me wanna just put on the breaks and crawl to my destination.  And that’s what I did.

I was in a residential area, kids everywhere, and this person was STILL riding my butt.  I actually said out loud, “this person REALLY needs Yoga”!  Now if you are trying to get to your house because you need to tell your relative goodbye before they board the bus to heaven, I understand.  I really do, but seriously how often does that happen?  You aren’t rushing to have a baby in your neighborhood, you’re on your way to the hospital.

So where’s the fire?

I’m still draggin my ass through the quiet area and finally make my turn onto the private road where Yoga was being held.  I glance up in my rear view mirror expecting to see the car speed rapidly down the road away from me, and it didn’t.  It stayed glued to my bumper.  I started to freak a little bit.  Was this a bad case of retaliation road rage?  I decided to peruse the parking lot, driving through the upper lot with lots of empty parking spots and then turning down into the lower level lot with just a few spaces left.

THE CAR WAS STILL BEHIND ME.

I pull into a space and they pull in to the left side of me.  I’m thinking something is going to go down here, so I reach over to grab my cell phone, and I’ve got the 9 and 1 pressed.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a person busily grabbing things on their passenger seat, so I brave it up and look over.  It’s a woman grabbing her Yoga mat and exiting the car with that and a gun  water bottle.

Had ya going there didn’t I?

I grabbed my mat and bottle and rushed to get out of my car, taking a quick second to check out something large in the back seat of her car.  She had Vacation Bible School signs!  What the WHAT?

She practically ran ahead of me to get into the building.  I later found out that she was an administrative assistant at a local church.

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.

Why on earth would she want to ride me so closely going to Yoga? We weren’t even late.  I tried to find an area far away from that crazy bitch which I did, but still couldn’t recover from the scare of impending doom, aka being pushed off the road by a maniac in a ratty old Toyota corolla.  I did Yoga for 75 minutes and my breathing never got to Pranayama. That’s yoga code for controlled breathing.  Never got there.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of the tiny woman who put the fear of God in me just minutes from my house.  My life flew past my eyes as I white knuckled the steering wheel.  She exited the class without any sort of acknowledgement to me and she was gone as fast as she arrived.

I can remember it like it was yesterday but it was almost a year ago.  Until a few weeks ago when she arrived at my Zumba class.  Seriously?  Like she needs more aggression?  Try as I might to move away from her position on the dance floor, she was right beside me.  As I inspected this woman head to toe, she seemed harmless.  Short lifeless hair and a pair of glasses circa the early 2000’s.  She was all of 5′ tall and was wearing sensible, boring clothing.  She obviously didn’t recognize the woman who she scared the shit out of a few months earlier.

We proceeded to warm up and there were quite a few people in class.  Zumba is no different from a gym in January.  High hopes and goals to be more fit for the coming year.  It eventually dies down to about half capacity, but today it was packed.  And speedy gonzales was erratic.  It turns out that Yoga is perfect for this woman, because SHE HAS NO RHYTHM. Absolutely none.  She couldn’t tap to Old McDonald if her life depended on it.  So as I was counting steps, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, she was all over the place.  At one point she was SO close to me that she was about an inch and a half from my bad foot.  I had to stop and take two steps back, while she was still absorbed with her flailing arms and legs.  She wasn’t stopping for nothing.  I had to give it to her, even though she didn’t have a single ounce of rhythm, she kept going.  Apparently you can work up a sweat doing random movements.  Skill-less, beat deaf movements.

Who knew?

Please enjoy this favorite that actually works in Yoga as well….but please don’t jump in your car with a rage-filled foot and run someone off the road.

 

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How Do You Like Your Anal?

I’m thinking this title might catch a few of my readers off guard, but it’s meant to.  If you are stopping by my blog because you are inquisitive about the title, you can stop right here.  It’s not what you think it is.

The other day I had to repair one of my acrylic nails, and looking at the shape of the nail I had just finished reminded me of a woman who I used to work with at Thrift Drug Store.  For the life of me I can’t remember her name, but she had short, very fake red hair and was a perfectionist with her appearance AND her job.  You see she was responsible for putting out new stock in the store.  She would take a delivery, which was a bunch of different items thrown into a “tote” (plastic bin with a lid) and walk around placing the items on shelves.  She had to do a lot of “facing”, which is straightening the shelves and making sure that every item was flush with the front with the end of the shelf.  Facing is annoying and takes a lot of time, but it makes the store look great.  She was perfect for her job because she liked precision.  Her nails were perfect, her pants were perfectly pressed, she had newscaster hair.  Not one out-of-place.  Not one.  Her lipstick never bled into the tiny lines around her mouth.  Her glasses didn’t have a smudge on the glass.

And it annoyed the SHIT out of me.

I used to try to be more like her, like perfection.  Try as I might, I just couldn’t do it.  I would try to bake an impeccable looking cookie.  One that was symmetric in size, decoration, consistency.  I couldn’t do it.  I would end up with a delicious cookie, but not perfect.

I would attempt to put an outfit together, pressed shirt and skirt with hosiery, clean shined shoes and impeccable hair and makeup.  In just a few short hours, my hair would be disheveled, my face oily and my clothing wrinkled from sitting.  And that irked the hell out of me.

Working for an insurance company, I put a lot of effort into all of my duties being on time and complete.  Crossing the t’s and dotting my i’s.  But I would make mistakes…

As the years would pass, I figured out that I was never going to be one of those superb, anal people who prided themselves on the ridiculous.  On perfection. It was so incredibly tiring for me to try to achieve what it appeared others had been able achieve to so easily.  Would I ever, even with lots and lots of trial and error?  Nope, I wasn’t going to be that person with seemingly effortless precision.  I would never be able to keep my panty hose from running, nor my lipstick from sticking to my teeth.

Some of us can.  Some of us will be able to achieve this crazy  way of life.  And guess what?  I’m fine with that.  Because having my life be perfect doesn’t appeal to me anymore.  How mundane would it be, but more importantly how stressful would it be.  I know that there are people who feel better about themselves when they have a clean house or matching shoes and handbag.  It’s not vanity, it’s just who they are.

And it’s not who I am.  Hi my name is Robin, and I’m far from anal.  I have a cluttered life and a house with odds and ends strewn about, and a job where I make mistakes and that’s okay.  Today my sweater is old and has some pilling, it should be longer to cover my dimpled ass, and you can see my bra when I lift up my arm.  It’s what makes me “ME”.  I’m not changing.

So how do you like YOUR anal?

And because I miss him and I can’t believe he’s gone so soon, take a listen to one of favorite vocalists.  His voice=perfection…