Thursday, January 9, 2014

Schweddy Balls: Surviving Hot Yoga

In my office at work, I have what I refer to as the “Wall of Shame.”  The wall of shame is an ugly oversize bulletin board, where for a long time I displayed my favorite emails/paperwork from employees that illustrated their stupidity and ineptness, or that showcased their tempers-gone-wild.  However, nowadays the board serves a purpose larger than just highlighting morons.  This corkboard now additionally houses tokens of my Seattle Seahawks love, a sea of inappropriate Someecards, and pictures of my Riley Roo and loved ones.  Also, somewhere in the mix of my twisted humor, a few scattered inspirational quotes and bible verses are to be found.

Yesterday morning, the colorful Lululemon printout on my Wall of Shame happened to catch my eye.  Side note: I’m aware that it might be in poor taste these days to display Lululemon propaganda with all the “our overpriced yoga pants are only non see-through for skinny people” scandal, but the quote is still good, and quite frankly I don’t care if you can see my ass crack through my yoga pants anyway.  But I digress.  The quote reads, “Do something today that your future self will thank you for.”  Smugly, I mentally patted myself on the back as that very morning I had set my alarm for 4:45am and attended a 90-minute hot yoga class.  I would be kicking ass and taking names that day, and my future self was giving me a satisfied nod of approval (and looking extremely fit I might add).  Never mind the fact that this was the only activity I’ve really had over the past couple months, surely that didn’t matter.  Yep yep yep, New Years resolutions be damned, this was just me being awesome.

Hot yoga is always an interesting experience for me.  Mostly because I am not the slightest bit flexible, and let's be honest, I have about as much ability to focus as an ADD kid hyped up on crack- but it is also because hot yoga is 90 minutes of bending like a pretzel in 105 degrees.  In my perfect Rachelle world, 90 minutes in 105 degrees would only happen while tanning beachside, with a piña colada in hand, a cabana boy on standby, and not much else.

However, in the spirit of doing a solid for my future self, there I was, dripping with sweat from head to toe in shorts way too tight for my chubby thighs at an ungodly hour of the morning.  I’ve never been a fan of tight little booty shorts, on me, or on the majority of the population.  This is because spandex, her two besties, lycra and nylon aren’t forgiving, and leave little to the imagination (bitches).  Unfortunately though for my ego, and for the eyes of the person behind me, being as close to naked as physically possible is really the wisest strategy when doing Bikram yoga.  Loose clothing prove to be a downright nuisance, so tight/barely existing ends up as the best wardrobe option available.

It is truly amazing how much you sweat in these classes, and by amazing I mean disgusting.  If the “valley” a.k.a. wannabe cleavage between my two boobs has a sweat river running through it, I don’t even want to think about the other crevices.  Although I must say, girls have it easier than their male counterparts.  Sweaty boobs are far more palatable and redeemable than sweaty balls.  And there were more than a few sets of balls in class that morning.

So there I was, finishing my shoddy rendition of the Dandayamana-Janushirasana pose (basically standing with your head on your knee), and moving into Dandayamana-Dhanurasana, when the instructor reminded us of the importance of looking forward and up, with the admonishment, “where your eyes go, there go you.”  As I concentrated on holding my leg and leaning forward in the perfect bow, I lifted my gaze upward and forward. To my amazement the only thing starring back at me were the balls of an overly zealous classmate.  Oh let me tell you, tight shorts may leave little to the imagination, but loose shorts sans undies leave nothing to the imagination.  Yes, this guy's balls were literally hanging out of his shorts, and I'm pretty sure that his man-dangles were dripping sweat at a faster rate than his face.

Maybe if I were a real grown-up or slightly less juvenile I would have been able to just maintain my concentration, but alas, my yoga brain was being flooded with flashbacks to the beloved Saturday Night Live episode with our dear friend, Pete Schweddy, and his Schweddy balls.  It was rapid fire for my brain: 

“Would you like to see my balls now?”  “I like the way your balls smell.”  “My balls are here for your pleasure.”   “There’s no beating my balls.”   “No one can resist my Schweddy balls.”  “There’s nothing like Schweddy balls.”   Oh Mr. Baldwin, if only you, Margaret Jo McCullen and Teri Rialto were here now.

The realization that we were just a little more than a quarter of the way through class caused my SNL highlight reel to quickly jam and fall out of my mind’s projector.  Luckily I could barely do that pose anyway, so when this daunting thought jarred me and I nearly lost my balance, no one thought twice.
Some time went by and I was mostly recovered when the next pose came along that required Mr. Schweddy’s goods to be out and making appearances.  The locust pose was a little bit trickier, as I only had two options for where to place my face.  If I put my face down on the mat, this wasn't pleasant as it really squished the painful zit I had incubating under my skin, and it likewise painfully pressed my swollen PMS boobs.  However, option two was looking forward, and I was terrified that Schweddy balls would suck me in like a Star Trek style tractor beam… “where your eyes go, there go you.”  I was not about to allow for the possibility of a collision with Schweddy or his testicular water faucets!  So... I intently pressed my face and ta-tas into the mat until the pose was over. My future self may not care that my zit was disturbed or that my boobs were squished.  But she definitely will be grateful that I didn’t hit snooze on the alarm, that I didn’t focus on the wrong thing, and that I did something positive for myself.  And if it wouldn’t get me fired, I would have a picture of Mr. Schweddy’s balls as the pinnacle of shame on my office wall.