A few weeks ago, out of the blue, my wife said the
following:
“We should do a new thing every week.”
Every married guy reading that sentence is groaning right
now. Single guys probably think it’s
just my wife looking to spend more time with me. For those of you whom don’t speak ‘marriage
speak,’ let me save you some trouble and translate what wives actually mean
when they say the above:
You’ve been playing video games and guitar, reading, and
just generally going about your business.
You’ve been bothering no one, been helpful, doing things around the
house, caring for the animals, not arguing with me, and just been a generally
pleasant person to be around. I believe
I’ve even heard laughter on more than one occasion. Clearly, this is not an acceptable state of
affairs, and it needs to be remedied.
The solution I’ve chosen is diabolical, because while it appears you are
only sacrificing one night a week, I know that you will spend the next six
nights dreading whatever shit I come up with for us to do to satisfy the ‘new
thing’ requirement each week. Of course,
I’ll initially come up with things to do that don’t really go too far outside
your comfort zone, but over the course of several months, I have devised a plan
that will end with your soul forever being crushed as you sit watching fat
people sing in Italian about the everlasting love you will never know.
Week One? We went out
for a few drinks. I don’t really drink,
so I bring along my own decaf tea (Twinings Lady Grey Earl). I, of course, am obligated to be the butt of
any and all jokes due to my beverage choice, which is fine. We had a nice time, but I knew going forward
things would not be this easy. This was
one of what I thought at the time would be many test runs. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Week Two? Death. I did expect a few steps in between Week One
and Death, usually my wife is a little more subtle than this. Naturally, it wasn’t phrased as ‘death,’ but
the goal was obviously the same. How was
it phrased, you may ask?
“Yoga.”
Pay attention guys, because the following is important:
Your woman will invariably bring up something you said that
was completely unlike you at some point in the future, if and when that phrase
will benefit her goals. For instance,
let’s say you saw the shower curtain, and for some ungodly reason, said ‘You
know, that’s an ugly shower curtain.’
The foregoing phrase will be filed away by your woman until such time as
she needs to pull it out. It will also
be slightly modified, of course, but since you maligned the innocent shower
curtain anywhere upwards of six years ago, and you can’t remember when your
anniversary is, much less what you said in an offhanded fashion about a shower
curtain six years ago, you will not be in a position to deny it. The phrase that comes out of her mouth will
be “Hey, you said we needed a new shower curtain, so I went to the store and
bought a new one, but it didn’t match the hand towels, soap dispenser, the
thingy that holds the shampoo, the rugs, the toilet seat, the mirror, the
lights, the fan (that is recessed and you never actually ever have seen), the
sink, the faucets or anything in the bathroom, so I picked those up as
well. Like you said.”
Anytime you hear a woman say “Like you said,” leave. Just go.
I know, your curiosity will get the better of you. You will think you can save the day, grab
victory from the jaws of defeat. You
can’t. Don’t even try. You will also notice the phrase ‘Like you
said’ is never, ever, ever preceded by ‘I will blow you,’ or ‘I brought that
hot chick home from the gym for you to play with,’ or ‘I bought tickets to
‘X-men.’ But in your misguided pride and
confidence, you will assume that this means whatever has actually preceded
‘Like I said’ is negotiable. It is
not. For example, I’m not a history
major, but I believe ‘like you said’ was the last thing Eva Braun said to
Hitler in the bunker as she handed him the Luger. Now, in that case, it was a good thing
because Hitler was a mass murdering fuck.
And like Hitler, you will equally be screwed.
Anyway, at some time, I believe I inexplicably uttered the
phrase “I wouldn’t mind trying Yoga.”
This was guy speak. My wife knew
it was guy speak, but chose to ignore that portion of it. What is guy speak?
Another translation:
“I wouldn’t mind trying Yoga” actually meant “If I were
thinner, younger, better looking, was independently wealthy, had friends, used
a variety of oils during sex, and was just generally a better all around guy, I
might try Yoga. However, that is an
idealized me, the one whom I’d like to be, but since the real me is lazy, not
very good looking, poor, not motivated, and generally all about the convenient
way out of any and all situations, it will forever remain a dream. I want to be the guy that does yoga, but the
guy that I actually am makes this a statistical impossibility.”
Anyway, my wife decides we are going to go to Yoga on a Monday
night. It is a beginner’s class, which
is just fine by me. As Y-Day approaches,
I watch the weather forecast, and believe I see a light at the end of the
tunnel, or rather rain. It’s not that I
don’t want to go, it’s just that I don’t want to go. Even on the morning of Y-Day, my wife had the
temerity to say:
“Class is tonight, if you still want to go.”
The unspoken end of the foregoing sentence? “and if you bail on me you’re a fucking pussy
and you will not be forgiven, nor will this transgression be forgotten. In fact, I will not say anything at the time
other than ‘oh, ok, no problem’ but I assure you, this little episode will be
thrown in your face at the most inopportune time in the near future, which will
include our 50th Wedding Anniversary, if I haven’t killed your ass
by then.”
In other words, I’m going.
Shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops and a magically added patchouli smell later,
I’m off to my first yoga class.
Let me be clear about something, when I was 18 I thought
yoga was some pussy chanting shit, but since then many of my friends have done
it and told me about it. I knew it was
going to be hard. Which reminds me, my
friends totally did not prepare me for it, so once I heal, I’m going to hunt
down every one of those sadistic fucks.
We get to the little yoga place, and as we step inside, I’m
immediately reminded of my kindergarten class.
There’s a little cubbyhole thing for your shoes, mats, and some pleasant
looking girl to take our information and money.
We wait a couple minutes for the class before us to get out, and as it
does, I notice a couple of the people are really sweaty. But they’re fat, so I figure they’re always
sweaty.
We go into the room and I tell my wife we need to go to the
back, because I’m going to suck at this and I’d at least like to have as small
an audience as possible.
The instructor comes in and starts the whole ‘yoga’ spiel,
you know inner connectedness, peace, tranquility, blah blah blah. I do notice some of the girls do wear nice
tights, and the instructor has a nice rack.
This is immediately nullified by the bulge in her stomach that I
incorrectly assumed was a baby, but is actually Satan’s spawn. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
So we begin with the whole sitting cross-legged thing, and
closing our eyes.
7:30 – ‘Ok, on our exhale, let’s go to ‘ohmmmm.’ I so badly wanted to say ‘ammmmmp.’ Haha, I love nerd humor. Man, is it just me or is it a bit warm in
here?
7:31 – ‘Now, we’ll go to downward dog.’ Looking around to see what this is, I don’t
know that I’ve ever seen a dog in this position. Maybe after it got hit by a bus. Wow, can we open a window in here?
7:32 – ‘Plank position, and slowly exhale to cobra.’ Ok, so far so good, it appears no one is
watching me fuck this up. I am starting
to sweat, and not in a good way, more in the ‘I’m engaged in physical activity
that I was completely unprepared for’ sort of way. Is there a fan in here?
7:35 – ‘Use your block, and walk your feet into your
hands.’ I’m not sure if that’s what she
said, but the heat is starting to affect my cognitive abilities. Why do the other people look unfazed? Peaceful even. Fuckers.
11:34- I’ve been here
for over four hours. Sweat is pouring
out of me like a waterfall. I can’t
breathe. I think I’m going to die. I need water.
Jesus, why didn’t I bring water?
It’s like a fucking desert in here.
I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, but it appears there is a skull of
some animal on the floor. Oh, that’s
just my ‘helper’ block. If I could move
I’d pick it up and brain the instructor with it. I bet she’s related to Nazis. Bitch.
7:45 – Fuck!?!?!?!?!?!?!
I’ve only been here 15 minutes?
I’m not going to make it. Did I
do a will? The only thing more embarrassing
than a lawyer dying without a will is dying while doing what is essentially
stretching. Maybe I’ll luck out and have
a massive heart attack which is a slightly more manly way to die. I just hope I don’t cry when it happens, that
would totally kill the whole manly massive heart attack vibe.
7:54 – Why is the instructor touching me? Yes, my form sucks. Did you not see my hand when you asked if
there were any newcomers? Stop touching
me. If I could move that way, I
would. It’s not that I’m not hearing your
instructions, it’s just I’m 6’2”, white, and I don’t fucking bend very
well. I’m also having heart palpitations. I’m undecided at this point as to how I’m
going to kill you. I may kill my wife as
well. If I can reach her. I’ll need a gun. Note to self: buy gun.
8:02 – I see a guy across the room whom goes to the same gym
as I do. He’s shorter than me, but stronger. Now I see he’s bendier too. What an asshole. Since I’m already going to kill the
instructor, her unborn demon spawn, and my wife, what’s another? I love Game of Thrones, and Arya had that
little prayer thing that she said before she went to sleep which was a list of
the names of people she wanted to kill.
I’m going to start doing that, it feels more proactive.
8:03 – ‘Instructor with nice rack, demon spawn not yet
hatched, wife, bendy gym guy…’
8:04 – Note to self: buy bullets when I buy gun. Lots of bullets. Ones that cause lots of pain, whatever type
those are.
8:05 – People have been telling me for years that my head is
up my ass. I always denied this
vehemently. I stand corrected. I’ve stopped sweating, finally. Actually, I haven’t, I just have lost the
ability to feel anything except pain. I
also see a pink unicorn in the corner laughing at me. I always thought heat stroke would be more
pleasant. My skin feels clammy. Actually, I’ve heard ‘clammy skin’ as a
phrase for years, but I really don’t know what it means. Should I keep using that word if I don’t know
what it means? Fuck it, I’m killing that
annoying violin guy that my wife hates.
I’ll kill him first, just to put her in a good mood. Then I’ll kill her. It’s more ironic that way.
8:06 – ‘Instructor with nice rack, demon spawn not yet
hatched, bendy gym guy, violin playing douchebag, wife… …laughing unicorn in
corner.’ He’s got to go. He’s quickly becoming a problem.
8:14 – ‘And slowly rotate your hips counterclockwise in
parallel with the floor and if it’s there, use the hand closest to the ground,
while you breathe out and gaze at the opposite wall.’ I’m not sure that she actually said
this. I just start doing jumping
jacks. I’m kidding, my left leg is numb
and I think my right hip is dislocated.
I’m just hoping I can stay angry enough while I’m healing to motivate me
to go buy the gun, the bullets, and shoot all the people that need shooting. I should write the list down. I forgot my glasses, so I can’t see shit. Ok, remember to remember when you get home to
write down list of people to kill and stuff you need to do it. Who am I kidding, I can’t remember to take my
clothes out of the dryer five seconds after the buzzer goes off. If I ever get some motivation, and a memory,
look out. There will be a lot of people
in for a lot of trouble. Well, right
after my nap. And maybe a snack.
8:21 – I need a nap, some water and a massage. I’ve never wanted a massage before, but I
want one now. There seems to be quite a
few willing people in the City Paper.
But they’re all trannies, right?
That’s what my wife said. The ads
that say ‘100% female’ actually mean they have a dick. I don’t get that. Why not just say in the ad ‘hey, got a cock
if you’re interested.’ Why the
subterfuge? Wouldn’t that be horribly
disappointing, you think you’re getting a female, and bam, twig and berries? Can you ever come back from that?
8:22 – Is that sweat or drool? Good God, this mat smells. I just fucking know that really fat sweaty
guy must have used this like a week ago and it somehow fell through the cracks
and didn’t get washed. I take a whiff of
myself. Oh no, that smell is me. This is not good.
8:24 – So if I wanted a girl masseuse, do I have to call one
of the ads that says ‘100% male?’ That
would be awkward. How does that call go?
“Hi, I see your ad you’re your ‘100% male,’ does that mean you actually have
boobs. More importantly, and answer
without thinking ‘yes or no: I have a cock? GO.’” Yeah, I’m not making that call.
8:25 – I like boobs.
The instructor has nice boobs.
It’s a shame she’s carrying Satan’s child. Note to self: shoot in stomach. Use silver bullet. Are those more expensive? Where would you get one? I’m guessing not at Walmart, which gets
everything they sell from China. Those
fuckers use lead in everything.
8:26 – Maybe I’ll go to one of those Asian places. Everyone says you can get a happy ending
there. Well, they say that on Law and
Order and Entourage. Maybe I better do
some research. I like Asian chicks. That girl over there has a nice ass. DON’T GET A BONER! DON’T GET A BONER! Oh, in happy news, it appears the blood flow
to the lower half of my body has been cut off, so no boners. In not so happy news, I may never walk again.
8:30 – ‘Ok, now we’re at peace, flutter your eyes open, and
breathe deeply.’ I’m sure my panting has
been overheard by everyone. I collapse
face first on this nasty mat, and frankly, the last thing I’m feeling is
peaceful. I’m drenched in sweat that
smells so bad that it could not possibly belong to me, I can’t find my penis,
and somehow my left leg is twisted around and facing the wrong way. I really want to pick my head up off this
mat, but none of my muscles are cooperating, and from the angry noise they are
making, flowers and candy aren’t going to get them talking to me again.
The instructor thanks us for ‘sharing our practice with
her.’ She walks out the door. Unfortunately, my body still refuses to move,
so I was unable to reach down her throat and strangle the demon spawn in her
belly, like I was hoping. I utter ‘good
night’ in her general direction, but it comes out ‘gbdbll ninhhhh owwwwwwww blub.’ The ‘blub’ is because I’ve started to
cry. Thankfully it appears I’m just
sweating slightly more profusely instead of crying like a girl who just got
uninvited to the prom. Not sure how to
explain the blubbering, something will come to me.
“So was it too bad, blob?” My wife coyly asks. She’s just checking to see if I lived, which
will inconvenience her greatly as she’ll have to come up with a different way
for the coroner to rule my death ‘accidental.’
“No, not too bad.” I manage to blurb out between the drool,
sweat and tears and whatever other bodily fluids that are supposed to stay
inside which have escaped. Oh fuck, I
hope I didn’t pee myself. I will not
give her the satisfaction of knowing how close a thing it was, and may still
be. I mentally calculate how far it is
to the door. I’ll need someone to call
911. The crafty bitch knew I wouldn’t
take my phone.
“Ok, ready to go?”
She gets up and rolls up her mat.
I slowly, like a blob, shuffle into what one could call an ‘upright’
position. Assuming one was an
optimist.
“So, think you’ll come again?” She asks. I know this game. I can’t let her see the weakness. I’m totally going to turn the tables on
her. She wants to yoga?
Oh, we’ll yoga.
“Sure, maybe we should come twice a week.”
That'll show her.
