Touchy, Touchy

First, a disclaimer: I have the dumb luck to be one of those people you either love or hate at first impression. It's ok, my heart will go on.

First day at the new gym, first yoga class in NYC. I've been a gym rat for a good 15 years, so this should be no big whoop. Superfly woke me from drooling, snoring sleep and off I went, schlepping the 10 blocks to NYSC. People peer curiously at my yoga bag, a lovely blue/green tube on a strap. If I was in an evil mood, I would've motioned toward it, indicating it was a machine gun. Not today! It's actually a very nice day and I'm over the moon with self-pride at dragging my ass out of bed to work out.

Helpfully, the club is flanked by McDonald's and Dunkin Donuts. Oy. It's ten minutes until class time, so I book into the studio to find...it dark and empty. Obviously, I'm in the wrong room. Where I've taken yoga previously, people are lined up outside the studio 20 minutes before class. After running all over the club, I finally asked a surly club employee where the yoga class would be held. Same dark, empty studio.

Only four other people trickle into the studio before the instructor deigns to join us almost 10 minutes late. She's got that typical yoga instructor stringbean body, long, ratty hair, and an extreme grimace. She's hacking and clearing her throat, which she continues to do, nauseatingly, throughout the class.

She's singles me out, of course, for petty bullshit. Despite my explaining the 8-month gap in practice and a lack of knee cartilage, she wants me to push and pull my limbs beyond what is safe and healthy and complained I wasn't trying. She said absolutely nothing to the four other people in class.

After we exchanged Namaste wishes, I said, "I hope you feel better soon."

She screamed, "I'M FINE! I FEEL FINE!" and stomped off.

Ok, then I hope you choke on your own phlegm and die, you fucking bitch.