Monday, August 1, 2011

Dirty Girl

“That’s a sexy picture, except you have dirty feet.”“I’m doing yoga, you ass.”
“And, shut up. You have a dirty mind.”
“I do so.”
“What’s your excuse?”
“My testosterone won’t leave me alone.”
“Are you into feet or something?”
“Ew, no. I’m definitely a butts and brains man.”
“Then you should appreciate a woman who does yoga.”
“Let’s see a downward dog.”
“I kid. Yes, I appreciate health-conscious women.”
“You know, if you were clever, you’d start taking yoga classes.”
“Oh, hells to the no.”
“Think about it: Limber women in tights and poses.”
“Give me a second …”
“Put that away.”
“Sorry. Yes, that sounds appealing. Can I stand in the back with my iPhone?”
“OK, you’re crossing the dirt road, approaching Pervert Lane.”
“My body doesn’t bend like that. I can do just about anything with a baseball, but my fingers haven’t met my toes in decades.”
“Your loss.”

She has a point. Working out with a woman can be exciting. I’ve taken a few hikes (not that it qualifies as exercise) with women and even went against my beliefs by holding the leash of their slobbering fleabags. I can’t recall lifting weights with a woman, though. Having one spot me on the bench could be simultaneously embarrassing and erogenous like walking into the bathroom while she’s trimming the biscuit. I’ve always held the belief that gyms are for exercising, not socializing, leaving me with squat.

“Why don’t we go to the batting cage?”
“Why would I need to learn how to hit a baseball?”
“Think about the future company picnic featuring a coed softball game. You don’t want to be the ‘girl’ who causes the outfielders to nap while she flails and spins, hitting nothing but air.”
“I wouldn’t bother. Don’t they have beanbag games?”
“OK, how about a driving range?”
“I’ll make you a deal: I’ll go to a driving range with you if you come to yoga class with me.”
“Ugh. Couples workouts rarely work out for me. I still have an impacted nut from a couples spin class I attended.”
“You’re not going to be injured. It’s all stretching and balancing.”
“Is it the kind they do in a human oven?”
“Actually, Bikram Yoga classes are the best kind.”
“Beak what?”
“It’s over one-hundred degrees and it helps you sweat out all your toxins while you work out.”
“I have no toxins.”
“You have plenty.”
“Alcohol, caffeine, THC, and wing sauce are all therapeutic. Just wait until you approach the half-century mark. Carrots constipate me. Besides, what would I wear?”
“Something loose and comfortable. It’s not a fashion event.”
“I’m picturing sweaty crotches, dirty feet, and the occasional man ass.”
“You’ll be busy trying not to fall over. You won’t notice.”

I know how this plays out. I dread it, I go, I struggle, I admit it isn’t as bad as expected, I wake up the next morning with unfamiliar pain, I limp around, and I sedate myself with ibuprofen and bourbon. I’d rather take a shortcut and head straight for the Makers on the rocks.

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