Thursday, February 26, 2009

Colonel in Special Ops said he was the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda.

In case you were wondering, no. No. Today's yoga class was not the magical booze cruise to Tahiti it was last Thursday.

First off, I was a little distracted by the Sweet Valley Twins performing their own version of Cirques du Soleil in the intermediate class. There were two particularly dainty blondes that were able to move their 85 lb. bodies with the likes of Mongolian contortionists. I really wanted to hand them both a McDonald's arch card tell them to "Have a Big Mac or two on me."

There was also a man there that I am convinced is the DNA hybrid of George Takei and Clint Eastwood.

As if there weren't enough human distractions while forcing my Sulu-loving ass up into downward dog, I realized something about myself. I'm the worst distraction in the studio. I'm...the underwear fiddler.

No, not this kind.

I'm a wedgie pickin', pant leg kickin', bra aduster that is constantly touching my own ass to assure no ride up and smashing my quadraboobies back into my shirt. Oh, and the pants I was modeling today managed to somehow balloon up at every stretch and make me look like Aladin. And there's nothing like a room lined with mirrors to let you know that you are not as descreet about readjusting the crotch of your panties as you had hoped.

Today's subject line quote is Colby Granger, "Numb3rs" (2005) {Toxin #2.9)}.


  1. I am irritated with your comments. I try and try to post them, but alas, I get no where.

    I'm trying from home now. See what you're making me do? Actual work at work. Ugh.

    So from what I remember about my witty comment, I was telling you I was completely the underwear fiddler last night at the gym. I was a-kicking out the leg and a-pulling at the panties. It was super sexy in the super large mirrors and also the fact that the entire rest of the gym could see me from behind as well as reflected in the big mirrors. Yeah, self awareness fail.



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