I just got out of my hot yoga class. Damn, that was a lot of sweaty boobies.
Let me back up, so you have more context. Although, let’s be honest, who doesn’t love sweaty boobies? I could probably just end my story after the phrase, “sweaty boobies” and you’d all be happy.
But assuming you’re here for more than sweaty boobies. (I just can’t stop saying it!) Then, hold on to your sandwich, we’re going in.
With the intention of doing something strengthening and cleansing for my physical, mental and spiritual health, my birthday gift to myself this year was to join a hot yoga practice. Since joining on September 21st, I have been going virtually every day for the past 5 months, sometimes even twice a day in a concentrated effort to exorcise the demons from my head, lungs, and inner thighs.
En route, I have learned a few things on this journey to self-discovery, inner serenity, yogic bliss, and care-free cleavage sweat. But because I live in a city full of type-A personalities all trying to better themselves, find themselves and escape themselves, it can be incredibly easy to get caught up in the hippity bippity intensity and miss the point of why we do anything at all.
As much as I love the practice of mindful meditation, when I’m stuck in traffic, I behave more like a hardened ball of office rubber bands needing a slam dunk into the trash, than an enlightened know-it-all in yoga pants.
Since I drive from another part of town, fondly known as, “The Valley” to get to my chosen place of serenity, which is in West Los Angeles (anyone reading this from LA is now thinking to themselves, “Jesus that’s far. She’s an idiot.”) I often encounter what most sensible humans would consider, ungodly amounts of traffic as well as it’s accompanying frustrations. (Merging onto a freeway with four million other caffeine-buzzed commuters will turn even the most chipper of folks into a demon spawn.)
So sometimes to temper the get-off-my-lawn fist shaking at other drivers, I will tell Google driving directions to suck it and take my own route to class. “I know roads!” I curmudgeonly think to myself. I’ve lived in this city long enough to know how to get lost and then find my way… eventually. But I’m a new woman now that I’ve found yoga. And on this self-defined journey, I get the opportunity to take the less traveled road to where I need to be. And earlier this morning I found myself especially daring, choosing to drive down the busiest street in Los Angeles, Hollywood Boulevard.
Most locals only drive down this street if they’ve got a kooky aunt visiting them who insists on getting an authentic signed photo of Marilyn Monroe, who of course, is still alive and well, spending her days with Chewbacca and Batman in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater. But for the rest of the LA locals, we avoid the intersection of Hollywood and Highland like a dentist with halitosis. Ideally, you’ve only got to experience it a couple times a year.
Stopped at a seven-minute red light, I watch the crosswalk full of women in neon short-shorts and glittery heels and Justin Beiber look-alikes in leather jackets and slouchy knit hats and I think to myself, “Ah, look at all the faces of uncrushed dreams. There they go to take a selfie with Spiderman and eat a seventeen dollar bag of M&M’s from the Disney store. Namaste you crazy goons.”
I’m feeling more optimistic by the minute. And after six more of them at the stoplight, I feel like I am ready to do what it takes to live my best life. I’m being proactive to feel better about myself, look better, breathe better and walk in gratitude. No amount of traffic is going to get this Storey down. Singing in my car, to the tune of, “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in my best Ethel Merman impression, I belt out,
Los Angeles, bring on your drunk Uber drivers and unnecessary road construction and seemingly blind jaywalkers. Nothing’s going to get me down! La la la! (that’s me singing more notes than words.)
Forty-two minutes and eight miles later, after fighting off a pigeon for the last remaining parking spot, I put my car in park and gather my belongings for class.
I can tell it’s going to be a great day. I mean, if nothing else, I get to look forward to sweaty boobies.
Check back in two days for part two of “Sweat Hog”!