Crossfit & Cookies

After a 4-week hiatus from hot yoga, I forced myself out of the apartment yesterday for a nice Sunday-sweat-it-out. Motivated, right?

Nay – my ‘scans’ are about to expire and I most certainly haven’t used all of them. Or even half of them. And I spent the majority of the day telling myself, and everyone that called/texted/FB’d me that I was going. Turns out, repetition is somewhat encouraging. Or whatever. I put my spandy-pants on over an hour early, drank a glass (maybe) of water and headed for I [love] Hot Yoga.

The saying goes that you learn something new everyday. Guess what I learned. My yoga teacher…is the devil. Who knew that such an evil person could reside in 5 feet/6 inches of slender cuteness? Not I.

Exaggerating? No way. The girl had us crescent moon/lunge/twist/binding until the Cat/Cow came home.

It’s good for me? It’s good for you. What did you do yesterday, asshat? Clean your room? Your laundry? Yah, I did that too. Then I stretched the Wendy’s out of my system (thanks PKG for getting that btw. E and I totally needed to eat), got a little light headed and sweat like I was having withdrawals. No drugs needed.

She was encouraging; I’ll give her that. Most yogis are. Unlike that Jillian Michaels. Please tell me you have done one of her 20-minute DVD’s.

Yah, I GET IT, Jillian. If I don’t want to put in hours at the gym, a 20-minute workout shouldn’t be easy – says her. If I am only willing to put 20-minutes into it, what makes you think I want to be doing it? I spend more time telling her how much I hate her, hoping that my weak voice travels to whatever media outlet she is currently interviewing with so she can hear my muffled swearing, than focusing on her little workout regiment.

This brings my to my next point: Crossfit.

Uncle J has been a track coach his ENTIRE life. He ran track, coached track, married into a family of track coaches then BRED more track coaches. My own personal hell. Thank gawd he lives on the other side of the state.

Saturday, 60-year old Uncle J told me the wonders of Crossfit. He had me air-squatting in a dress. At my Nonnie’s memorial. (Then we walked 20-miles to the nearest gym in the snow without shoes so he could improve my form.) With enthusiasm he proudly told me of his seven-lost pounds. The 6-minutes he cut from his Entry-test time. The 28-year old sorority ditz that he almost beat during the Exit-test – although, pretty sure at age 60, being behind by only 3-seconds basically makes you the winner.

I had to take a Diet Coke/cookie break at this point. Then hoped he osmosis’d those seven pounds away from me. (He did not, fyi.)

This conversation happened not even 24-hours after cousin K and I passed a group of Bootcampers, chuckled and reminded each other how we would never do that.

To Recap: My Uncle could kick my ass twice. Possibly three times. Pair him with a peppy-Yogi and you’d find me passed out somewhere between Greenlake and Eastern Washington.

So, find me at Hot Yoga. I’m getting my sweat on before Jillian Michaels tracks me down and tells me I lack motivation. Scary bitch.

Side note: My yoga teacher was actually really sweet. Her ability to make me hurt like I got hit by a Crossfit truck while gasping for what little air I could find in my non-smokers lungs was impressive. And yes, I should be thankful that she gave me a good workout. At the time though...she-devil.