I went to a yoga class last night.

As the thumbnail might suggest, I would like to say I went simply to see how far I am from being able to self-fellate, but I actually went because my doctor recommended that (among other things) I start a regimen of stretching.

As long as we're being honest, for the record, I did not want to go… My day started at 4:00 AM that morning trying to get to Birmingham from Tuscaloosa for a 7 AM flight after I over-celebrated Alabama's DOMINATE win over Tennessee the day before.

(I'm on the left.)

Anyhoo… I got back to NJ by mid-morning only to be greeted by my evil wife telling me that she did exactly as I requested after my last doctor's visit, and set me up for a beginner's yoga class at 8 PM in one of our neighboring towns.  That selfish bitch set it up for 8 because she figured I would want to decompress, watch the NASCAR race, and maybe take a nap before going.  

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Again, that foul shrew-of-a-woman also had a yoga mat prepared for me and washed a t-shirt of mine that she knew was extra-long, so I wouldn't come un-tucked during downward dog and then called ahead to the studio to make sure they reserved a spot for me in the back of the room, so I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of the more accomplished yogis.

I'd like to use the word "grimalkin" to describe my terrible spouse, but I don't want people rushing to Google because I just happened to remember an SAT word, so I will stress one last time how much of a fucking she-devil she really is.

Sooooo… Much like me on my wedding night, 8 PM came quickly, and I drove to the studio to give this thing a whirl.

I know this may shock most of you, but I do not do yoga.  In fact, I have only been to a class once before… I was a sophomore in college and one of my roommates was dating a yoga instructor, so a group of us went to her advanced class in order to watch girls our age sweat in spandex shorts and sports bras.

Even though I and the group of guys I was with were collectively in the best shape of our lives, the advanced workout DESTROYED us.  So much so, that I was barely able to masturbate later on that night to the bevy of beauties who were vigorously contorting all around me.

Fast forward over 30 years, and I was heading to what was now my second-ever yoga class with a ton of skepticism and a decreased desire to masturbate to anything.

When I first got to the dojo, I was pleasantly surprised that this wasn't one of those "hot yoga" classes.  As I mentioned earlier, I spent the weekend in Tuscaloosa drinking and eating, and then I capped the weekend off smoking an unnecessary THREE cigars after Alabama won.

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(Innisfree is the best bar in T-Town, and it ain't close.)

You see, there is a college tradition down South where security at Alabama's Bryant-Denny Stadium lets spectators in with cigars, cutters, and torches, and then the ushers do not bust your balls when tens of thousands of Alabama fans light up in the stadium after beating the Vols.

I wasn't aware of the tradition until my son started going to Alabama last year, and I was very much looking forward to lighting up once the Tennessee game hit our schedule.

My point is- Three cigars and a ton of booze and shitty food would've spelled DISASTER for anyone within 10 yards of me in a Bikram yoga studio… In the mildly warm room we were in, I already gave off a distinct odor.  If they would've ramped up the thermostat to 90, I would've stunk like Paul Sorvino's taint.

RIP

I rolled out my mat and laid down on my back to begin the breathing exercises and an assistant walked by to help anyone who seemed lost.  When she passed my mat, it was painfully obvious I must've been using a kid-sized mat because my head and feet were comically hanging over either end.

She playfully commented, "Aren't you long?"

To which I replied, "It must be the shorts."

That was a penis joke for those who aren't following along, and I probably shouldn't have said it.  

And the rest of the class went just fine.  My instructor was very patient, and I was able to get through it with little-to-no injuries.

Will I go back?

I think so… Once you turn 50, everything starts rolling toward the grave, and I think yoga can make that trip a little less painful once I get used to it.

I'd love to sit and chat some more about this, but I'm gonna head upstairs and see if I can finally suck my own dick.

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Take a report.

-Large