Last night I decided to be a good girl and go to yoga. Holly had told me she’d be attending a 7 p.m. class, and well hey, I work out!
Not really, but I’m trying to, and I go to yoga when I can/didn’t just eat a bunch of Cheetos.
Class went well, meaning I didn’t faint. Holly wasn’t there — I had never confirmed with her anyway — but that didn’t stop be from repeatedly scrutinizing every brunette in the class, thinking as far as three quarters of the way through that maybe just maybe that girl in the corner was actually totally Holly!
It was not. Holly didn’t go because of the snow, I made fun of her on the air this morning and then she and I sang kumbaya and braided each other’s hair.
After class, I experienced an unfamiliar feeling: I needed to take a shower.
In case you’ve never been, hot yoga is not the type of sweat that immediately re-dries, leaving you looking just as fresh as before, if slightly beachy. After a hot yoga class you look like a wet dog.
Having learned my lesson with an untimely rash last fall, I opted out of putting my soggy yoga pants back on after showering. I could not put those salty rags on this effervescent, cucumber scented skin. My body was a temple! Namaste.
I opted out of the pants, not immediately realizing this meant opting out of all pants. Normally I bring an extra set of clothes to yoga, but tonight I had decided to abide by the way of life I like to call, “I’ll figure it out!” which usually ends in “**** me.”
I considered a few courses of action. I could walk out with no pants on. No, I couldn’t do that because I had forfeited my usual knee length coat for a new, shorter Patagonia coat I had bought on Tuesday for 40% off! Damn you fashion. I could go out to the lobby and buy a new pair of shorts OH NO I CAN’T BECAUSE I DON’T EVEN HAVE PANTS TO WEAR TO THE LOBBY.
Final option: Wrap myself in my yoga towel and make a run for it.
After a few ill-advised attempts at walking out of the locker room in my ass-less coat, I wrapped my yoga towel around my waist and avoided eye contact like I was at an X-Men Cyclops family reunion.
“Thank you for coming!” Someone at the front desk called out, to which I muttered something unintelligible and hobbled out of the studio, worrying with every step that my purple harness was about to come undone.
I managed to avoid any wayward glances, very easily decide that no, I would not be stopping at the next door Chipotle this time, and I made my way to my car across the street.
Once inside I sighed a breath of relief. I had made it. I hadn’t made it home, but this was my car, and you can do whatever you want in your own car.*
I waited until I was about halfway home before going the Full Monty, praying I wouldn’t be pulled over and featured in Colleen & Bradley’s next edition of “Crazy Stupid Idiots.” Fortunately, this would mark one of the first occasions I deserved to be pulled over, and wasn’t.
Someone else was, though. An 18-year-old woman from Florida was arrested for driving home in nothing but underwear because it was “real, real, real, real, real, real, hot.”
And ya know what? I don’t blame her, because even though you risk embarrassment, arrest and peeling your buttcheeks from a leather seat like velcro at the end of the night, sometimes driving home in your birthday suit is real, real, real, real, real, real necessary.