I find, most often, the hardest part is
So... uh... yeah, anyway... I actually GET my ass to the gym. I forget my own yoga mat (ALWAYS) and have the guts to put my bare feet on a potentially-fungus-covered public-use yoga mat. Socks are off. Sitting on my arse bones waiting for class to start.
Not to be confused with a Jack Johnson song. Much less trippy-esque, much more potential foot fungus. Maybe even butt fungus. Yoga pants are only so thick, people.
|Your ass could be next.|
Then, after some more waiting, the instructor doesn't show up. W.T.F. Seriously?? ....REALLY?? Seriously? I put in all this effort to
|Puts the "LAY" in Frito-Lay?|
See, the Doritos appear to be the better choice. Or, at the very least, the most INTERESTING choice.
So, fine. Not to be discouraged,
Fine, f*ck you skinny yoga beeyotch.
I'll try Zumba. I tried a fitness studio elsewhere, in another town, with KICKASS Zumba results.
Back in my hometown, after eating a few bags of Twizzlers, I decided to brush the cobwebs off my gym membership card. And try Zumba once more.
My assumption was that you had to have rhythm to instruct these classes. You know, at least keep to the beat. I know, I am so fucking demanding, aren't I?
The instructor couldn't even dance. Hear that? COULDN'T.EVEN.DANCE. Everyone around me was named Mae, and Ethel, and Myrtle. (No, not the turtle). Fuck. Really? Seriously?
Thought I would give another instructor a chance. Got on my gear. Went to the gym. Waited for Zumba class to start. No instructor showed. No call. Nothing. Front desk staff said they had no idea what was going on.
I'm going to McDonald's to get a large Coke. I'm pretty sure the 82 grams of sugar will make me feel better. And help wash down these Doritos.
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