Sweaty S&M

Like any normal girl I am completely irrational. Also, like most girls I have put on weight since I started dating my boyfriend.

In the year that we have been dating, I have put on just over 10 lbs. To give a little background on this, when he and I had met I was still reeling from a very hard break-up, my ex and I dated for about two and a half years. Needless to say, I took the break up pretty hard. I did not get out of bed and I did not eat, I just sat in my room, crying and writing sad things and listening to sappy music. It was like a pathetic 80’s montage, tears, tissues, puffy faces, and letters all over a messy bed with sad music playing in the background. Don’t worry; I am not trying to relive the break-up, I am trying to illustrate that I was a hot skinny mess.

When I met my current boyfriend I was a little underweight, only by a few pounds, but my close friends could see the weight loss and started to worry. I was starting to look like I had in high school, a prepubescent boy. But, somehow my boyfriend saw through all of that and stalked me on Facebook until I agreed to go on date with him (or at least, that is how I am going to tell it for now).

So since being comfortable in my new relationship and my fattening restaurant job, I have put on about 10 lbs. I am at a totally healthy weight for my height, age, and body type. I have a totally healthy BMI, and my body fat percentage is in the “fit” range. But, because I am a female, I am crazy and I have decided I should lose the 10 lbs I have gained since getting into this relationship. Most of the reason I want to lose the weight is that I simply feel better. I think I look better.

I figured the best way to start this new diet would be to buy a scale. That way I know where I am starting. I can track my weight loss, I can track my BMI, and I can track my body fat percentage. Also, I figured if I really knew how much I weigh (instead of just guessing, although I was guessing totally accurately) I would be more inclined to lose the weight.

So, today I started the weight loss journey. I do not plan on making any drastic changes to my diet, probably not eating at work as often. But today I really decided that I am going to be proactive in shaving the pounds. I sent my birthday twin a text letting her know I would be willing to try Hot Yoga with her. Personally, I do not like yoga, at least not the standard temperature yoga I tried before I had this brilliant idea. My twinny was excited that I was being open to working out with her. A few seconds after I send her this text about Hot Yoga, my friend from work sends me an IM on Facebook asking me to come to Hot Yoga with her. I told her I had just drunk a glass of wine but, took this coincidence to mean Zuckerberg thinks I should lose the weight also. Surprised by the serendipity of it all, I agree to try Hot Yoga. The place she goes to is running a special of 10 days for $20, so I figure if I don’t like, I am out $20, at least I know, and I can call it a day.

So I show up a few minutes early and fill out the paper work, hand them my money, and head into class. Walking in, I notice that I am out of my element. Everyone is spread perfectly apart so there is not a convenient spot for my yoga mat (previously reserved for Pilates). I wedge myself into a line that does not actually exist, in front of but still in between my friend and a stranger. Before class starts I have a minute to observe. I am able to observe the brick next me, the fact that I am the only person in class wearing socks and therefore extremely aware of what a newbie I am, and I am able to observe the thick stench of ball sweat, because when they say Hot Yoga they mean hot like the back seat of a Pinto on prom night.

Once class gets going I am led into strange poses in a foreign language. I am taught how to properly “Om”, I am sweating like a hooker in church, and I am told to relax, let my mind be free, I am told not to judge myself or my body, I am told to breathe. All this talk and alien language makes me stressed out. I get stressed at the idea of not being able to relax. Then I start to think about how working out is supposed to include being critical of your body, because that is why we are there. Then I remember the heat has made me dizzy and I feel as if I am going to be sick. I wonder if the other people in class notice that I am dying. I wonder how embarrassing it would be if I were to pass out in the middle of class. I remember that I do not do well in the heat; I am from Washington after all. My chest feels congested which is making my breathing more difficult. Then I hear that I am supposed to free my mind and just relax. This only stresses me out more.

All of this makes me wonder-I try to focus on this idea in class, but I am too dizzy and sick and sweaty to really hold it-who thought working out in this type of heat is a good idea? Who came up with this? And even more importantly, why do people do it? This is proof that women really are crazy. We can be sold anything as weight loss, or healthy, or relaxing, and it will become popular. The men in class seem less crazy to me, they get to work out while staring at girls in a position called Downward Dog. I start to wonder when working out in sticky humidity, stretching, breathing, and being calm while trying to tone up, started to sound like a good idea? And somewhere between the 100th Downward Facing Dog pose and the Tree pose, I start to wonder what the hell I am doing there.

The answer never comes. I just continue inhaling hot air humid while alcohol disguised as sweat drips out of my pores. I swear only 15 minutes has passed.

The instructor corrects my Downward Dog three times. She does not sweat.

I still think only 15 minutes has passed and I wonder how I am going to make it another 45 minutes.

After an hour and a half of stretching, balancing, breathing, and mostly sweating my hell is over. I pack up my yoga mat that had lain untouched in the trunk of my car for more than a year; I put pack my brick and rope, and I walked outside into the chilly fall weather.

My friend asks me what I thought and I tell her. She asks me how I did and I find this question strange because she was right behind me the whole time, she had prime view of my lopsided Downward Dog, but I tell her that I would definitely need more practice. I tell her that I hate it. I want to work out to get the feeling of working out, not be stressed about the fact that I cannot relax during my work out and that my work out is more like a guided meditation in awkward positions than an actual work out. But, she is not giving up and she will not let me. She swears that I cannot judge my experience on the first session; she says I need to give it at least three tries and backs this up by reminding me that I paid for 10 days. To her, being in hell is less important than $20.

For some reason, I agreed with her. 

A Pinch of Dysentery

What is it about getting older that you can actually feel death getting closer? This idea became very prevalent to me after riding just two rides at the Puyallup Fair. When I was a child I had no problem jumping from ride to ride and eating three elephant ears, two funnel cakes, a hamburger, a hot dog, an ice cream cone, a brick of fries, and at least one scone-I was a growing girl-then going on every ride that went fast, upside down, and spun in circles about a million times. The only thing that slowed me down at the Fair as a child was stopping to eat and my feet constantly hurting from all of the walking and running around.

When I went to the fair last night, my feet didn’t start hurting until the fair was almost closed, I could barely choke down one of the mystery meat burgers, and the scones, elephant ears, and funnel cake all seemed too sweet to stomach with the turbulent rides and screaming kids.

After just two rides, I was ready to call it a day. My head was pounding, my stomach hurt, and I am still surprised to I didn’t hurl in a nearby trash can. But, we had driven an hour to get there and paid over $80 for parking, admission tickets, and bracelets to get unlimited rides, I was not about to waste that money or an afternoon moping about my tummy hurting, so it was time to man-up.

I swear, I remember Fair food tasting better. Everything but the ice cream cone tasted like it was giving me dysentery on The Oregon Trail. I think the meat in the burger patty was the stuff McDonald’s turns away for not being high enough in quality. The burger came with nothing on it. We were not even given the option to put on lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, or raw onion. There were bottles of ketchup, mayo, and mustard on a side table next to the flimsy napkins and little packets of salt and pepper. But those were the only things you were allowed to add on to your burger, at least the only thing they didn’t charge a dollar fifty to add on. If you really wanted, you could have grilled onions and cheese. Because when I think of a delicious burger, I think of a bun, grilled onions, and mystery meat paddy. Sick.

After we were able to get our appetites back from that horrific experience (I swear, I don’t want to eat a burger for the next year) we tried a BBQ spot. I remember it was always so good, with the best ears of corn. They would always have juicy ribs, great BBQ pork or chicken sandwiches, or BBQ half (or whole) chicken. It is as American as food can get. So, we decided to go there, plus the prices are actually kind of reasonable. Once again, disappointment. Not the same type of colossal disappointment that we had from EarthQuake Burgers, but not as good as I remember. The sauce was heavy on the apple cider vinegar and the chicken was dry. The corn was still amazing and I actually liked the baked beans. But the meat and the BBQ sauce they sell in jars was subpar. And all of this made me wonder, is it the fair that changed, or just me?