So after angstily anticipating the "Deed" (as I had come to call this folly in my mind) for two months, the day of the "Deed" finally came. I womaned up and ventured to the cave of the beast. The travelling guru of a basic course instructor, that I'll refer as mr. Dulcet Sells-Ya-Bridges, was a well-tanned finnish-swede with flashy white teeth and knees blotted with the lipstick of teenage yoga bitches. Some relaxed jokes, easy-going light workout and gentle phosphate-free brainwashing later the three day course was over. Well that wasn't so bad, I thought naively. And looky! They even included 8 free practice sessions in the price! Well why not use them, as this ain't exactly laborous or any-shit, I thought.
So to a practice session I went, happily as a lark (don't really know if they are happy or miserable as shit, hard to tell from that kind of animal, they do have that distinct look of sleep-depraved amphetamine users, but you get the gist). I was all relaxation and goofy non-stretching stretches that all amateurs do when they expect to attend to some non-sporty sport and have a few minutes of doing exactly nothing, apart from looking real stupid and mr. Beany.
Then our local instructor came and the practice begun. There were no jokes, no brainwashing, and what had been three days of easy-going light workout was condensed into one hour of what the CIA refers as 'interrogation stress positions' following each other in rapid staccato, with the added bonus on having rigid set of rules on when and how to breathe. My brain and body were instantly on each others' throats:
"Now just do as the nice instructor lady tells you and breathe out and bend over to..."
"Fuck you! That is NOT possible!"
"But that string-armed lil' girl is doing it..."
"I don't CARE! It HURTS! Also FUCK YOU!"
"Now-now, this should be easy, now why don't you just take your right leg and lift it to..."
"Hey I have a better idea, mr. Brain, why don't I take a rusty seven inch nail and stick it into you through the EAR instead, MUTHER... FUCKER!"
So if the more dirty-minded and juvenile of you have wondered how it feels like to be in a room-full of spandex-clad ass bending over to your direction, the answer is: it don't feel like shit 'cause there's no TIME for visual input to enter from your eyes to your brain! No embarrassment, no difficulty in finding non-creepy directions for your eyes, no NOTHING! Also, your body and brain hate each other with the intensity of acclaimed and award-winning mr. Al Pacino in the final stages of rabies and most of the positions specifically state that as an bonus-torture you have to look at the tip of your nose. And even if I was mr. Snake Gandhi, my eyes were full of sweat (as was every other place and this is no hyperbole: the floor was having puddles of the stuff and I had to be REAL careful not to kill meself slipping on my OWN SWEAT!) It was a fucking Abu Ghraib, I tell ya! So even if I was an ogling pervert, there would be nothing to see.
And then the training ended and it was time for the few minutes of relaxing after which we sat up and the kick hit me. Wowza! I had to resist checking if I had unknowingly creamed my pants during the exercise as the feeling was... just wowza! It was like gaining that post-coital glow plus at the fucking first time in my life be able to BREATH properly. When I left the training hall I had the biggest grin on my face and all my joints were bendy and muscles un-clenched and I had to fucking learn to walk again without all those unconscious muscle cramps and shit. I was like a limpening giant dick teetering towards my car. (Edit: Like this.)
So nowadays I go there WITHOUT ANYONE POINTING A .44 AT ME and voluntarily torture myself for an hour at a time, SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK! It's sick man! This yoga stuff should be ILLEGAL! I'm like an earthworm on a hook, but I fuckin LIKE IT. Oh man, I'm a goner now...