Sweathoggin'

My co-workers sweat a lot. So I'm told, anyway.

I used to irregularly attend yoga during my lunch hour. It wasn't entirely doing yoga, as even the basic positions are difficult to reach (nonetheless hold) for an inflexible lump such as myself. I suppose you could call it practicing yoga, so long as the connotation carries the idea of a five-year-old practicing the violin. (Not coincidentally, I made some of the same squeals.)

It isn't like I want to yoga. (Is it a verb like golf? I've never heard someone say they wanted to tennis.) But it was a way to stay in better shape, or at least attain other variants of this shape. It loosened my perpetually tight hamstrings and helped me relax some, especially during the cooldown meditation period (read: naptime) at the end of the sessions. The only attendants were the instructor, a kind, encouraging woman, two fellow students (far more accomplished and enthusiastic than myself), and me. Thankfully, I was never positioned in such a manner that I couldn't escape or unfold myself.

When I inquired about yesterday's lunch yogurt (as I term it), I was informed they're now without the instructor, opting instead to learn from a video. More disturbingly, while the video title is yoga, it "feels more like Pilates." As if yoga didn't hurt enough?

Even so, I thought I'd join yesterday's stretch-n-kvetch (and occasionally retch) session. Except, as 11:30 rolled around, I discovered I'd taken my workout shirts home. I had a pair of shorts - two, even - but no top cover. Throw me out in the middle of a field on a hot summer day, and I think nothing about removing my shirt. Skins for basketball? Done. But learning Pilates while concentrating on a video and flopping around foolishly in front of coworkers? Nah.

In lieu of sweating it up, I chose my alternative workout. How many calories do I burn chewing and swallowing M&Ms?