Holy shit, thank GOD they specified this yoga mat bag can be used by men AND women. I was wondering! (Read: I was not wondering. At all.)
I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.
For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.
Bring it, lady.
A man sent me an intro message on OkCupid that said, “I can tell from your profile that you’re very laid back, which I like in a woman.”
Um… no, I’m totally not.
The insanely thorough profile doesn’t really scream “Cool Girl,” does it? How’d you arrive at that? Show your work.
Also, when you say you like “laid-back” women, I’m reading that you like women who won’t bug you too much, because “BITCHES, man, amirite?”
NOPE. I don’t care about things some men seem to assume all women do. I won’t try to make you watch The Notebook or come to my yoga class or go shopping with me. (I’d actually prefer you didn’t.) But you’ll definitely know when something’s important to me. An ex of mine said I “hint with a hammer” — subtlety isn’t really my deal.
I also drink too much coffee and take a crack-based drug for ADD, so I’m almost always jittery. Plus I have massive trust issues, and assume fight stance quick when I think someone’s testing them — my brain basically turns into River Tam toward the end of Serenity, beating the shit out of the Reavers.
I am high-the-fuck-strung, sir.
Again, George Carlin says it better: “I’m not ‘laid-back,’ and I’m certainly not ‘mellow.’ I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called ENERGY.”
I MAY have just called the yoga DVD lady a bitch out loud, and told her that if I’m spreading my legs that wide, I better have at least one orgasm as a result.
So I’m glad to see I’m responding to the spiritual nature of regular practice.
In my defense, I’m in my living room and menstruating, and she’s doing yoga on a beach in a white bodysuit, so fuck her right in her third eye.
One more on last night’s yoga class:
It was all women in the class, and at one point the instructor had us rotate our ankles, because “a lot of your acupressure points for hormonal issues are in your ankles. Makes sense, doesn’t it? No wonder we have those issues, men make us wear those high heels!”
1. You don’t even wear high heels, Hippie, I can tell. You wear Birkenstocks if you wear shoes at all. You just walk around on a groovy hemp-based cloud.
2. No man has ever MADE me wear anything. I wear heels because I’m 2 feet tall and chubby, so if and when I CHOOSE put on heels, I’m taller, and my legs and ass look AMAZING, and they add bonus sway to my Olivia Pope strut. Do I wear heels to attract men by tricking them into thinking I’m sexy? Absolutely. But they don’t MAKE me. (And yeah, I know I’ve been raised by male-controlled media to think all this is true, but…I mean, it’s true. Heels make me feel sexy and bad-ass. Blow me, Birkenstock.)
3. Ever leave heels on for a guy? That right there is how you get pancakes after.
Tonight I went to a “mindful” yoga class, trying to relax and learn to be more present.
While lying back on a pile of pillows with our legs open, the instructor told us to imagine a divine being offering us a magical sponge to absorb our impurities.
My divine being was Angel from “Buffy,” and the sponge was contraceptive.
I think I did it wrong.