Yoga Pants

The cackling from my wife coming from behind me isn't helping the yoga.   I am trying to find my suki here and I'm finding it difficult to discover it with the snorting laughter echoing through my living room.  However, I do not know what suki is which makes finding it rather difficult.  It's either a state of mind or it's a street somewhere in France.  If I could concentrate a little I should be able to reason out which one of those two it is.

You would think that the laughter would discourage me from doing yoga and I'm sure this is the fundamental reason that many people do not go out into public to do yoga.  Let's be honest here, downward facing dogs and mountain stances are never not funny.  Doing yoga is like "imagining that you are a tree blowing in the wind."  To do them requires a certain level of "fuck it, I don't care anymore."

Which is good because I ran out of fucks a pretty long while ago.  There comes a certain point in your life that you realize that what people think of you is not all that important.  This does not count our wives though because she has now fallen over with her laughing.   It's warranted because I'm wearing yoga pants.  Her yoga pants.  It appears that we are both distracted.

It was an honest mistake at first.   I have a pair of long johns, very manly black long johns, that I got for Christmas.  They are comfortable and helps when I have to remove snow and it's cold as balls outside.  As I do not want my balls to get that cold, I wear them to keep the company assets nice and toasty.  I got up this morning and put them on, noticing at first that they seem pretty tight for long johns.  But they are supposed to be tight.  And the fabric felt different, thicker.  Perhaps they shrink when you get them out of the dryer and they haven't been worn in a while.  And they were shorter than I remembered.  Maybe I grew.  I'm a growing boy after all.

And I had a toddler screaming at me for what reason the gods don't even know.  Then my daughter tripped, fell, hurt her knee and then decided now was the perfect time to have a pre-teen meltdown.  Of course, my 9-year-old son would not be ignored as he wanted to tell me all about squid, or Pokemon, or what his friend Johnny said or why it's important to never cough and sneeze at the same time.  All solid advice.

At 7 am in the morning, the day is pretty hectic.  Sometimes a random mother will also call with important updates on unimportant things.  So I grabbed my oddly comfortable and oddly thicker long johns and got to work.  I'm raising a family here people, take notes.

Throughout the day the long johns kept creeping up on me, riding high in places that I didn't think they should ride high at.  Perhaps my junk is just getting bigger.  It happens when you reach a certain level of manliness.  I read it online, so it must be true.  I didn't think much about it until we sent the kids upstairs at night so we could get our yoga on.

We are trying to be healthier.  We are trying to manage stress and anxiety.   And according to Mrs. Youtube Yoga teacher we are trying to find where this yoga journey will lead us and experience ourselves in whichever way that it is presented to us.

On a quick sidenote here, I would be a lot more focused during my yoga if the teacher didn't say things like "elongate your soul" or "point your pelvis with purpose."  I want to scream out "That's what she said," every time I hear it.  It's a bit distracting.  Maybe if she said what we are really thinking it would cut down on my immature humor.  Probably not as "point your pelvis with a purpose" would instead become "get that butthole jolted to the ceiling so you can't hold a fart in" would be as equally distracting.

With the kids upstairs I had the awesome idea that I should take off my jeans as the only thing I can stretch in my denim is good fashion choices.  So the jeans came off, fuck it I'm in my own home.

My wife stopped.  Looked at me.  Started laughing.

"Those are my tights.  I've been looking for them for a month."

"No, they aren't.  These are my long johns."  The nerve of some people.

"Um, yes they are.  Those are my tights.  Those are not long johns.  Why would you think they are long johns?"  Then she started to laugh harder.

I looked down and after feeling them again for a while, I had to agree.  I was wearing my wife's yoga pants.  And you know what, I make them look good.  My calves were popping, rippling leg muscles that had some definition to them and even the flat butt was presentable.  And they were so comfortable and warm, like being snuggled under a down comforter on a day that you don't have to get out of bed.  So fuck it, I'm wearing yoga pants to do yoga in.  I'm going to zen this.  I am going on a spiritual journey to discover my inner yoga pants wearing self.

So we did yoga.  My wife laughed.  We did the downward facing dog and my wife laughed more.  We did the Cobra and my wife couldn't' breath.  We did the mountain pose and my wife had to run to the bathroom before she peed herself.

And while she was in there I decided that perhaps next time I was going to just do yoga in my very loose and comfortable boxers.  My very open legged, cold ball hanging boxers.  With any luck, I can get her to pee in her yoga pants before the week is over.