Farting in Yoga and Other Gym Adventures

Yes, I have been going to the gym lately.  Thank you, I have lost some weight.  How much?  Oh, I don't know, I don't really keep track of those things.  I'm just trying to be healthier.  Okay, okay, I weigh myself every time I go in the bathroom.  And considering the pack a day I smoke I'm not going to be on the cover of Women's Health anytime soon. 
    I joined the YMCA again recently, after being on a fitness hiatus for the past few years.  I used to live at the Y, not literally like the guys in the Village People song, but I worked out often.  I looked fabulous.  I have the pictures of me in the bikini to prove it.  Dusty pictures, but pictures, nonetheless. 
   But it isn't just wanting to get back in that bikini that propels me to renew my commitment to getting back in shape.  This October I will be turning the big 3-0, a statement which thrills and terrifies me at the same time.  I would like to enter the most important decade of my life at a healthier weight, my fighting weight, if you will.  I know that my 30s are going to be filled with changes:  career, marriage, family.  (If the fates allow).  I 'm going to the gym to prepare for the fight of my life:  make something of myself.  
    So, because of my resolution I found myself in my car in the YMCA parking lot, desperately trying to remember the combination to my lock.  I knew that there was a 9 in there, I was sure of that.  And the other two numbers definitely had 3s in them.  I knew that much.  If you happened to spy a woman in a silver Toyota furiously scribbling down different codes in a notebook like she was John Nash, that was me.  After thirty minutes (!) I decided to give up another $6 for a new lock.  I told the lady at the front desk that you know it's been a while since you've been to the gym when you can't remember your combination.  She laughed, and handed me a new lock.  The combination is one I'm sure I won't forget:  9-11-17.  Now, 9-11 is a number no one will forget, especially with all those handy bumper stickers people have.  And 17, that's obviously a reference to January 7, which is Dustin Diamond's birthday, and who can forget that?
    Just in case I did forget, I decided to be smart and save the combination.  I put the sticker with the combo in the pocket of my oh-so-adorable swimsuit cover-up.  And what do I also find in the pocket of my too-cute-to-shoot cover-up?  You guessed it:  the combination to my old lock.  13-9-31.  I knew it!  I was so close!  Argh!  Oh, well.  If anyone needs a lock, let me know.
    So after the pool, I head to a "back to abs" class.  Which should be called:  "I can't believe I did this to myself".   I've never wanted to spit on my instructor before.  But I got through it, and my abs have stopped aching.  And cursing at me.
   After that, I decided to stay for the next class, which was yoga.  Which is supposed to be about relaxing, becoming one with your breath and your body.  Awesomeness, right?  Cheaper than marijuana and without the risk of incarceration.  So we're in the middle of the child's pose when the woman in front of me cuts one.  I've heard of this happening in yoga, and I know it's perfectly natural, but I don't care how zen you are.  When someone rips one a foot from your face, you aren't going to be thinking of the rainforest during a light mist.  So we carry on, and finish the routine.  At the end of the session, the instructor asks us to give a sign of peace to your fellow yogi or yoda or whatever she called us.  So I turn to the chick on my right, and she ignores me.  I'm all like, whatever!  I am an enlightened being, full of love and goodness which is pouring out of me at this very moment, and you ignore me?  I am a beacon of hope!  I am the way!  Fuck you, bitch!
    So after my peaceful yoga session, I decided to treat myself to the steam room.  Or as my Jewish friends say, a "shvitz".  I enter the steam room, which is usually dimly lit, but for some reason, the lights were bright.  I'm the only one in there, and I'm letting it all hang out.  I'm feeling pretty good, really unselfconscious about my body.  Suddenly, a woman enters the steam room.   She says, "Oh, it's so bright in here.  I can't relax when the lights are so bright.".  I have the same response to her that I give to the old lady behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store, who's complaining to me about the outrageous price of peaches.  "Yeah, I hear ya'".  What I wanted to say to her was, "I know what you mean.  It's hard for me to relax when someone busts in on me and loudly complains about the light."  But I was still a beacon of hope and light, so I held my tongue.
   Having broken the spell of my relaxation, I decided to call it a night and hit the showers.  I left the gym in a glowing cloud of health:  relaxed, refreshed, and renewed.   I felt so good in fact, that I felt I deserved a cigarette.  Hey, one thing at a time, people.  There's always 31.