I'd rather stay home and watch Glee.

My two week introductory pass to hot yoga expires this week. I've gone a total of - ONE time. Probably the most expensive yoga class I'll ever attend. And it will go down in my exercise history as the worst time ever.

My darling friend Pea and I planned another session just so I wouldn't spend $30 on one class. (Good friends don't make their friends waste their money.) We planned it for last night. I was so stressed at the thought of going that I texted her to ask if it was bad of me to skip it entirely and forget trying to make my intro pass cost-effective. She said she'd be happy to stay home and watch Glee. I agreed. It was Lady Gaga night! It was decided. Glee vs. hot yoga. Glee won.

My bf came over instead and he had leftovers I had made for dinner. I made a fab dish I learned from a Filipino lady I work with. Kalabasa at Sitaw sa Gata = long beans and squash in divine and lovely coconut milk. I added the divine and lovely. You can add whatever meat you like, if you like. I added mushrooms and prawns. Drench over rice. Yum. Google the recipe yourself because this one I'm not going to share (it's super easy anyway and not actually a secret).

He sort-of complained that we never watch "television programs" together. I laughed and said that I liked it when he talks like an old man. So we watched Glee and then he wanted to watch his newly-discovered fav show: Flight of the Conchords. Fucking hilarious. I ♥ Bret. I like his floppy hair. My bf is jealous because he does not have floppy hair. He's thinking of growing it. I think he's like Murray. So I'll refer to him as Murray from now on.

Lessons learned today - Coconut milk makes me happy, watching television programs with your Murray is quite nice, I'm pretty lazy when it comes to yoga.

Damn that Vigor

I have a confession. I do not know how to ride a bike. I know. I'm not sure what happened during my childhood, I guess I was busy with other things - mud pies in the backyard, making bolero jackets from scraps of leather for Barbie...

I vaguely recall a banana seated bicycle with its intimidating red paint and the 2 inch thick tires mocking me to balance on. I managed to ignore this childhood milestone. The only time I couldn't ignore my inability was during elementary school Sports Days when there was the bicycle parade. But in retrospect, I think I was more interested in the decorations, not the bicycle or cycling around. That part just seemed pointless. I envied the pink and white crepe paper and shiny steamers that were on the bikes more.

Before I knew it, the bicycle that mocked me had rusted into silence and was sent off to charity. And the pink and white crepe paper parades were over. And I turned 16. So I learned how to drive first.

In my adult life now, obviously I'm very much a driver and I like my car. I arrive at destinations on my terms and time schedule, and I can wear whatever I want. I like having that sense of control. No one tells me when I have to leave my house or else have to wait for another ride! No one! And if it's raining, I don't have to wear that dreaded Gortex.

Then I met Murray. He's outdoorsy and talks about nature and fresh air all the time. He's drags me up and down mountains and forces me to take deep breaths when we are in the woods. He likes to go for bike rides and swim in lakes. Don't ask me how we ended up together, but we are. And I'm grateful for him, taking me out of the mall and into the woods (sort of, sometimes). So for us to continue to enjoy a variety of activities together (riding our bikes to the mall perhaps?), it's about time I learn how to ride a damn bike. Now where does a grasshopper find a master?

My friend Nej is the most avid cyclist I know. She does not own a car, she often reaches vacation destinations by bicycle. I envy Nej. She has options. This past Winter, we started discussing bike riding lessons. It gave me enough emotional preparedness time to be ready for Spring and my first lesson - today. *gulp*

Master Nej thought of everything. She borrowed a bike and helmet (good friends don't let friends waste money), scouted out a location, prepared a lesson plan. I knew I was in good hands. It was my own lack of center of gravity that I was worried about!

We started with bike pedals removed and I was instructed to "ride" around pushing off the pavement with my feet. Master Nej kept shouting "Vigor!, Vigor! Pedal with vigor!" Damn that vigor - it was due to lack of leg muscles. I thought that was evident when we started. I think she was a little perplexed. How could someone be unable to push themselves around on a bike with no pedals? Um, right here, right now. C'est moi!

After a couple of hours of scuttling around, trying to find my balance, getting over my fear of speed, working on my vigor, Master Nej thought I was ready for pedals. Great, just when I figured out how not to fall off, she's adding things that stick out and I have to put my feet on without looking down.

When I finally figured it all out, I was...well, hard to explain how I felt. I could only perversely equate the feeling to having sex for the first time. You know, that moment when the deed is finally happening and you think “what the fuck is going on?” but you just keep going and it’s exhilarating and scary all at the same time. Er, maybe that's just how I felt.

After almost 5 hours, Master Nej declared that I could ride a bike. I wasn't as confident as she made it sound, but I was more than thrilled to accept her declaration. Murray and I can ride to the mall now.

Lesson learned today - I know how to ride a bike!

It's about what it could become.

I was watching a show about hoarding and the woman with the problem was shopping in a craft store. She gushed about how cute something was and was tempted to buy it. All the while, back at her house, she was dying under the load of crap she had been hoarding for years. She said “it’s not about actually making the craft, it’s about buying the supplies, and I finished the last line with her – it’s about what it could become.” I actually gasped when I heard her echo.

I can never move from where I am. I have an entire bedroom filled with craft supplies. Instead of a bed, it has a dining room table that seats 12. I admit, I might be a few things shy of being that lady on tv. But the difference between her lunacy and mine is that I’m just more organized. I’d prefer to think of my stuff as an investment and my organization as a personal asset.

My bf has realized that my organizational skills can be applied not only to my own crap, but to his crap too! Aw, he noticed. He’s recently moved into an apartment downtown. Too bad all he could afford in his dream location was less than 450 sq feet. Not bad actually, considering the real estate market here.

Anyway, it’s definitely not a hell of a lot of space, but it was a wonderful challenge. I was exhilarated when he gave me free reign of his furniture and space. After ordering him around to move stuff, slowly but surely the place was taking form and becoming a home he can enjoy, and one I don’t feel gross visiting.

The thought of such little space makes me nervous. What would I have to get rid of? Where would I put my shoes? Hell, where would I put my craft investments?? It made me seriously start to think about what I have acquired over the years. I won’t get into my Hello Kitty phase. I have probably bought enough Hello Kitty stuff to buy a car, put a down payment on a house, AND feed a small third world country. I digress.

I’m an emotional hoarder. I remember where, when, how much, what I was wearing, who I was with when I look at all the things I’ve bought over the years. I know it has to stop, and I’ve been very good and not buying things lately. It’s very difficult though. There’s so much cute useless crap out there!! So I'm giving my crap a new life and turning them into cute accessories. It's a slow process with a lot of interruptions (my damn day-job, spending time with a bf, friends, family, exercising, eating, sleeping, my damn day-job...) but I love it when I do get into it.

Lessons learned today - one can actually live quite nicely in less than 450 sq feet. I have a lot of crap.

Excuse me sir, could you pass the zebra print?

I had a hot date Friday night. Literally. Sorry, bad joke. Finally Pea and I went to hot yoga. I didn’t mention it before, but the night the car died, we were first in the studio making phone calls to find someone to help with my car. I couldn’t help notice a guy inside the yoga room who was stretching before the class (the one we were supposed to be attending).

Let the record state that I am very fond and attracted to my bf. I was only checking out this guy because he was wearing very little clothing. Don’t get excited now. What he was wearing made me wonder - what the fuck goes on in a person’s head sometimes?! Zebra print bikini. Not a word of a lie. He was serious about this ensemble. It had neon in the print. Fucking PANTIES and not a hint of irony.

I didn’t mention him before because it was only for a moment and it was not a good moment! But now, as I lay on my mat before class, who do I see but the SAME guy. Keep in mind I actually never saw the guy’s face the last time. Only his non-ironic panties. Dare I be presumptuous to assume this was the same guy? Oh I dared. There can’t possibly be TWO lunatics who go to yoga at the same studio who choose to wear the same ridiculous panties. How embarrassing would that be? The two wackos show up at the same yoga class wearing the SAME zebra print panties? Oh the horror.

Enough about panties guy. I will mention that he sweated so profusely that he left a pond on the floor and it confirmed he was wearing actual underwear. After all that sweat, he left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Have a little respect for your fellow warrior posers, buddy. Go out and buy yourself a pair of respectable and exercise-appropriate SHORTS. Because the last thing I need to see is your SWEATY JUNK. *Om*.
And just to add – I would have forgiven the whole thing if Zebra Panties resembled David Beckham in that Armani underwear ad. But he didn’t. And yes, it IS a cruel world solely based on looks. So put some proper pants on for fuck sake! *OM!*

So how was the actual yoga class? It started out okay. I think I only participated 50% of the time. The rest of the time I sat/laid there hoping it would be over soon. The heat was bad enough, but the woman next me with her body odour did not help with the calm breathing I was supposed to be doing. All that could get me through it was thinking about how I could write about this experience and warn all others how horrible it is. Save yourselves! (Okay, all you haters that LOVE it, do what you like. I just didn’t like it.)

Also to pass the time, I decided that hot yoga would be a perfect path to world peace. Get the bad guys in a hot yoga room, and I don’t think there would be any war or crime ever again. Needless to say, it was not a good experience. I actually cried at one point. The crying actually felt better than anything else I was doing at that moment. But I survived and now I can mock it all I want because I’ve tried it!

Lessons learned today – deodorant is more important than you think. Silky underpants are definitely not acceptable in public. Think about your fellow human. They see/smell more than you’ll ever know.

It's all about The Yoga

Everyone is all about The Yoga. It’s not a typo; I’ve made it a proper name. Where I live, if you aren’t joined up with some Yoga class, don’t own $500 worth of Yoga gear, haven’t gone through 2 Yoga mats, you just aren’t a citizen of The United Zen of Yoga. Whatever. I pay my taxes; I’m not an illegal immigrant! I just don’t get The Yoga.

I am not one to mock it until I try it. So, I’ve tried it and I didn’t like it. My yoga instructor couldn’t believe that someone my age was not flexible. She said this to me when we were in the Impossible Pretzel pose (yes that’s the proper name for it). Yeah because that’s so natural to everyone in my age group! I can’t help it. I’m not bendy.

So fast forward a few years later and now I’m still just as unbendy as the day I was failing the Impossible Pretzel pose. However, after much encouragement (read: harassment), I’ve decide to give it a go again. This time, I’ve decided to try Hot Yoga. Apparently, it’s a new thing for all those poseurs who couldn’t get enough of regular room-temperature yoga. Well, my acupuncturist said the heat would make me more flexible. Talk about poseur, yeah, I said I have an acupuncturist. So there all you Lululemon lemmings! I have a guy, what do you have? Expensive pants?? I digress...

I’ve recruited my dear friend Pea, and we have started our hot yoga routine (sans Lulu outfits). So how’s it going you ask? Er, I have the introductory pass in hand and know where the studio is. The Yoga cosmos must be seriously out of line because I have attempted to attend twice now with no success!

First, Pea and I have major scheduling issues. Pea has the luxury of no day job right now and has been enthralled in the life of a university student. We finally picked a date and time. She calls me 10 minutes before the class to say she is stuck in traffic. She doesn’t understand what rush-hour is anymore. I forgive her. Besides, it’s not like I was dying to namaste my ass into gear for 1.5 hours in a 40 degree room with 90 of my closest, sweaty, poseur friends. So no big deal, we try again the next day.

Second attempt and we were more prepared. We even carpooled – how eco and zen of us! I stopped for gas and when we were on our way to nirvana – the car wouldn’t start. The dials in my car made these flicky, poltergeist-possessed motions that prompted us to immediately jump out of the car and go for help. Hello, not good.

The lovely clerk in the gas station was nice enough to have a look and determined we just needed a jump-start. Now I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, even though we’ve just met, but I don’t know the first thing about cars. Well, I know how to operate one, put gas in it when it says to, and take it to the mechanic when they send me that cute notice in the mail. My equally diva-princess friend Pea, on the other hand was surprisingly all over the jumper cables and popping the hood and all that stuff! Love her more now! She claims all that info is in the car’s manual. I have no idea where my manual is.

Newly pumped with electricity, the car takes us on our way to yoga. By the time we get to the parking lot, the car DIES while it’s running. Now I said I knew nothing about cars, but that much I know is bad.

We ditched another attempt at yoga to focus on getting home with my dead car. Pea was kind enough to flag down strangers in the parking lot, asking for a jump-start. Meanwhile, I was on the phone trying to get a hold of a friend in the neighbourhood. She returned from her mission in deep despair. “Everyone said no! They actually refused!” Duh, secretly I already knew that no one would help, so that’s why I didn’t bother. Poor Pea, her rose-coloured view of life thought people would be nice and rush to our distress. Hellz no, that’s why I was on the phone with someone I knew wouldn’t say no!

My friend wasn’t really available, so my bf came to the rescue. I think it makes him feel good when I don’t know what I’m talking about and he gets to be the man and fix things with a wrench and bang on things that I’m worried he’s going to break and he gets to tell me how silly I’m being and he knows what he’s doing. We eventually made it all home safe and sound (well, except my car that has a dead battery).

Lessons learned today – always have jumper cables stored in your car (they don’t come standard), strangers aren’t always helpful, so make sure you have available friends on speed dial. And three times a charm for my road to bendiness.