In my never-ending quest to maintain my, zaftig figure, I signed up for a hot yoga class. My friend said that it was the best thing she’s ever done and that I should do it because I’d love it too. I’ve exercised doing yoga before with videos, but I had never taken a class.
I went armed with my yoga mat, a towel and a humongous bottle of frozen water since I was going to be in a 100 degree room for the next hour and a half stretching, bending, balancing, detoxifying and generally finding peace and balance. Actually, screw the peace and balance part, I wanted to sweat out the pounds.
Well dear readers, my olfactory sense is super cunning and I can smell “stink” before it hits the air and believe me when I say that the toxic smell of feet unfortunately reminds me of Doritos. It was a Doritos factory in that hot yoga studio. Was the smell coming from the feet or the carpet? What’s the difference?
I wanted to get out of there, but I thought about the twenty dollars I paid to take the class so I braved it. It was a full class, but I found a spot in the back. A few minutes later this dark-haired cutie plants himself right in front of me. Things were looking up when he smiled at me; I smiled back. Then he took off his sneakers and holy “beegeezuz” the fumes from the sour stench of feet had hit the hot air waves. My smile turned into a grimace. My new Romeo had turned into a stinky cutie. But it was feet after all. I couldn’t really fault him for that. After all I’m sure mine didn’t smell like roses either. But I, at least, had the foresight to wear flip-flops and let my feet breath.
The class began. I had gotten used to the stale Doritos smell and as long as stinky cutie didn’t stick his feet up in the air and in front of me I’d be okay. I wasn’t taking deep breaths like you’re supposed to though. Twenty minutes into the class I was sweating but okay. We had started the down dog position which I was very familiar with (if you know what I mean) and transitioned that into the upward dog (something I wasn’t very familiar with). Then the instructor got on her hands and knees for the modified cat pose, which meant sticking one foot out and balancing yourself.
And there it was before me. From heel to toes was his right foot in all its “stenchly” glory. I gasped, then something went down the wrong pipe and I began to cough one of those uncontrollable whooping coughs that happens just when everyone is quiet and concentrating. He turned around, I thought with apparent concern, but the look on his face said something else. I had disturbed him. I had distracted his search for balance and harmony. Maybe you need to take that outside stinky MILK said (yes, I had just downgraded him from cutie to Man I’d Like to Kick). Outside did he say? The nerve. Well I had no choice. I packed up my stuff, slipped on my flip flops and prepared my exit, but not before I gave a slight kick to his sneakers and said, “Odor eaters.”
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