Why You Should Never Trust a Man with the Same Name as Your Dad
I like yoga, a lot. In fact, I spend over $100 a month to like it at a studio (which makes me want to begin a rant on the exorbitant expense of yoga, but I won’t, because I need to stay on track).
I first started going to this one instructor’s Tuesday/Thursday evening classes because he’s a total babe, but then it became about the actual class because it’s totally amazing; an hour and a half of heated vinyasa flow in a packed room full of motivated souls.
So, a few months ago, I get to the Tuesday class, find a spot in the crowded room and settle into child’s pose. While trying to quiet my mind amongst the high energized chatter of post nine-to-fivers, I sense a yoga mat being laid down ever too close to mine. I look up to see whom this bubble-invader is, and, instead of a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five, I find a bronzed god in my presence. At least 6 foot 4 inches of shirtless, chiseled beauty. I just wanted to rub some dirt on his chest and abs and wait for him to hold me captive and make me his concubine. Obviously I’m speaking of Brad Pitt as Achilles in the movie Troy, when he so heartlessly shows the world his insanely perfect naked body and “lays” with his imprisoned princess, Briseis.
I clearly can’t relax now, since I partially believe Brad Pitt is next to me in yoga. Instead, I wait for the class to start by doing a bunch of poses that will position my head over my right shoulder, which just so happens to land my eyes in the direction of
God himself. When the class does finally begin, I’m all concerned that I’m going to sweat too much, fall out of poses and just generally suck at being perfect. But instead, I’m pretty much killing it; getting into the deepest position of each pose, sexily-sweating (maybe that’s not outwardly accurate, but believe me, I felt it) and feeling enough strength and energy to go on forever.
Usually when a yoga class is over, I roll up my yoga mat as quickly as possible and exit out the side door to escape the stampede of dripping men and women touching shoulders as they slowly file out the narrow doorway of the studio. This time, I don’t think I could have rolled up my yoga mat any slower. I didn’t even lift my gaze to get another look at “Achilles,” but I just needed to simply be next to him a little longer. Then (oh my god get ready for it)……………. I hear a slightly raspy, super deep voice say “It was nice practicing with you.”
Now go back up and look at the picture of Mr. Pitt and just imagine that’s what’s speaking to you.
So I’m like:
And he’s like, “My name’s Doug,” and holds out his hand to shake mine.
And I’m shaking his giant-sized man-hand and thinking ugh that’s my dad’s name, but you’re so hot, I don’t care.
And then I’m like should I tell him that’s my dad’s name to make conversation?
And then I’m like don’t fucking tell him that.
Finally I tell him my name and we start discussing how great the class is, and then he tells me he looks forward to seeing me next time and I die a little on the inside.
All I can think about for the next two days is Doug and getting back to that yoga class so we can fall in love and have god and goddess babies and all be yogis together… and have cats too.
When the day finally arrives, I get to yoga like a half an hour early (which I found out, by doing so, does not help you in the least because they don’t even open the studio until 5 minutes before). So eventually I get in there and set my mat down and pretend to act all relaxed and cool, but every time I hear a man’s voice entering, I almost break my neck trying to see if it’s my main squeeze. But suddenly everyone’s all settled in and the class is starting and I don’t see him anymore.
I am pretty much looking at the clock for the next hour and a half wanting it to be over since I’m all depressed that Brad Pitt didn’t show up. I’m struggling to balance, sweating profusely, and totally not in a yogic state of mind.
“Namaste,” we collectively say as the class comes to a close. I’m rolling up my mat as quickly as possible, preparing for my ninja like exit when suddenly I hear…
“It was nice practicing with you.”
No, it was NOT to me.
Yes, it WAS Doug.
He’s in the back of the studio, standing with his giant-man-hands on his hips, sweat rolling down his 8-pack, as he talks to a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five.
And I’m like:
And so my friends, the very important moral of the story is:
NEVER TRUST A MAN WITH THE SAME NAME AS YOUR DAD!!!!!!!!