My Inner Monologue During A Hungover Hot Yoga Class

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My Inner Monologue During A Hungover Hot Yoga Class

Last weekend I visited my sister to celebrate her birthday. We whipped up her favorite meal for a dinner party at her place and I bonded with the bro-in-law over tequila late into the evening. Five hours of sleep later, I was rudely awoken with the crushing news that last night, in my inebriated state, I had agreed to do hot yoga with my big sister the next morning. It was her birthday, I was still a little drunk, and the promise of fit women doing provocative poses in skimpy clothing piqued my interest. After coffee, Advil, water, and eggs, we were off.

The following is a transcript of my internal thought process during the class.

* * *

“Better introduce myself to the instructor, let her know it’s my first time. Considering the impending hangover, setting up an excuse for failure is just smart planning.”

“Oh! Hello to you too, aren’t you friendly? I might be rocking a solid buzz, but I know playful banter when I hear it. Either she’s a dangerous saleswoman playing to the ego of an unsuspecting mark or she’s totally into me…definitely the latter. No ring and a solid nine. No pressure, John, but you better buy that overpriced yoga mat to let her know you’re the real deal.”

“She says first timers don’t need to worry, but what she doesn’t know is that I was throwing back Añejo and inhaling enchiladas just six hours ago. If she knew the amount of coffee it took to get me here, and the fact I haven’t shit yet, she’d call the bomb squad.”

“Alright, I’ve got ten minutes. Let’s try and exorcise this demon before class — where’s the bathroom? Great facilities: the new age jams and bamboo shoots really give a relaxing vibe for bowel movements, but is shitting barefoot in a public stall sanitary?”

“Much better, I feel like I’m floating, let’s do this. Woah, 95 degrees and 40% humidity is fucking hot. Whatever, I’ve done the DC Metro mid-August in Italian wool, I can handle this.”

“The main goal here is not to be the worst in the class, after that, just enjoy the scenery. Well, the talent is outstanding. I’ve finally answered the age old question of ‘Where do all the hot women go in the winter?’ Let’s see the competition: and everyone is warming up with headstands, fuck.”

“Wait, who’s this walking in? Rat’s nest up top, Trenta Starbucks in hand, slumped over defeated demeanor wearing sunglasses inside? These ladies are hurting from last night.”

“They’re setting up next to me! This couldn’t be more perfect, I’ll look like a pro next to these two hot messes. Oh, wow, they look terrible, their teeth are still purple from last night, but props to them for getting here to sweat out all that wine and probably some dude’s DNA.”

“Okay, let’s get started. This isn’t so bad. It’s tough, but I’m nailing the moves. The sexy instructor can’t keep her hands off me, always shifting my hips and leaning into my body. Can’t blame her for trying to cop a feel, the pheromones I’m pumping out must be intoxicating.”

“This 95 degrees and 40% humidity is starting to get ridiculous. 20 minutes in and I’m drenched in sweat. I feel like my entire body is inside a vagina. Maybe that’s the yoga way? Return to the womb to find inner peace? Sounds hipster enough to be true.”

“Caught a chick checking me out in the mirror. She’s either cringing at my form, or cringing at the discomfort of subduing her lusting loins. Interpretation still up in air.”

“Oof. These poses are definitely moving me on the inside, and I’m not talking about my chakra. If I squeak one out now, can I get away with it? I mean the hangover twins next to me are so bloated and flushed they look like the Kool-Aid Man and those Starbucks caffeine cream bombs they walked in with are smoking guns. I could totally pin it on them.”

“Let’s go. Gotta wait for that move where I raise one leg for maximized distance between cheeks for lowest decimal detonation.”

“Here we go… leg lift in three… two… one… release.”

“Perfect execution, and what’s that? No smell? Those Tums paid off. The Dalai Lama couldn’t have done it better himself.”

“Does the Dalai Lama do yoga?”

“‘Big hitter, the Lama – long, into a ten-thousand-foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier…Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort….’ Heh, Caddyshack is the best.”

“I can smell the Tequila in my sweat. If I swallow the sweat pouring down my face will I start getting drunk again?”

“Cooldown time. Yeah, Corpse Pose is definitely my favorite, eyes closed lying on your back, how Sundays should be. Here she is again, now massaging my shoulders and head, this public foreplay is pretty hot, definitely expecting a phone number under my water bottle.”

“I feel great, really loose and I think I just dodged a hangover. What’s a good reason to chat up sexy instructor? I’ll ask her about some package deals, boom, genius move.”

“One hundred bucks for five classes, not bad, I’ve spent more at a bar for worse dates. She even wrote down her personal class times, she totally wants me. I mean she did call me Josh on the way out, but that’s gotta be my new mystical yoga name that I earned.”


Image via Shutterstock

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