Momaical is a humorous look at trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Cursing & copious coffee involved.

Momaical: [mom-mahy-uh-kuhl] = (Hybrid of Mom and Maniacal.)


Please Stop Looking At My Asana

There's a personal trainer at the gym who has a body to die for.  She's perfectly tone. We are talking negative 47% body fat.   She's not bulky muscular nor super skinny.  She clearly works out religiously and she's someone that I would actually listen to as a personal trainer because she looks that amazing.  She'd be like "Now squat lift this John Deere tractor" and I'd be all - "I'll lift two if I look like you at the end of all this!"  I first saw her while watching the super advanced crazy insane step class that happens right before my yoga class.  She's got the steps stacked up to one flight below heaven.  She flawlessly completes the choreography with unbelievable grace all the while looking like - only 25 platforms today under my step - it's a light day for me. 

A while ago I had asked my doctor how I could get my post-baby-stretched-out stomach like to look closer to this demi-goddesses butcher block abs.  My MD explained a complex procedure that involves an industrial sized paper cutter and super glue. As I am allergic to super glue, I have not yet undergone this procedure. Yet. As soon as they find a process that involves Elmer's or double sided tape - I am so in.

Anyway, for the first time today I saw this woman outside of the classroom.  She was in the locker room apparently dabbing off a bit of glitter from her brow (because when you're this fabulous you don't sweat - you glisten).  I boldly walked over to her and told her that she looked fantastic.  I feel like when you work that hard you should get compliments.  There are a lot of haters out there that don't realize how much effort goes into a great physique. It's much easier on your self-esteem to be all "yeah, whatever, she probably has ugly feet and doesn't know the difference between their, they're and there." She kind of blushed and I walked away to chat with my husband for a few minutes before class started.  

I told him that I had complimented the woman. He knows who I am talking about as I gawk at her taking this class every Tuesday.  I have pointed her out because her shape is really what I would like to look like (in a perfect world where I didn't like food and survived only on goldfish flakes and sunshine).   He then says "She probably thinks you were hitting on her. We are in San Francisco now, don't forget."  

Walking into my class, I settle into my spot and get ready to get all up into Downward Facing Dog's mix.  The regular yoga instructor is out today.  And, of course, who walks in to sub but Personal Trainer Glistening Goddess in Lululemon.  She even has perfect teeny tiny feet with a perfect teeny tiny pedicure which makes you balance even better than those of us with chipped, outgrown, month-old-sparkly nail polish applied by a 5-year-old.

I want to relax into my yoga state of mind but I can't stop thinking about how this woman probably thinks I was hitting on her in the locker room.  Dammit!  Why do I even speak to my husband????  Did she just say stop checking out my asana?  Oh. No. Phew. She wants us to practice asana. Whatever the hell that is.

I somehow manage to survive the class without making eye contact with her in fear that she thinks I may try to suggest a private AcroYoga lesson or ask if she could help wash my back after class.  I run away as quickly as I could without stepping on the stomachs of people still milling around in their corpse positions.  I tell my husband total embarrassment about the substitute instructor.  He barely remembered our conversation an hour prior that screwed with my zen.  His reaction:  Oh, I was just messing with you.  She probably didn't think a thing of it.  Stop being weird, Tracy."  Sighing deeply, I whacked him with my yoga mat followed by a swift kick in the asana with a mangled sparkly pedicure.  Ahhh - peace at last...Om....

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