The one where I am rendered worthless by yoga

At 6:20 this evening I looked at the clock on my work computer and started to close down the open applications.  I grabbed my pink bag and headed to the restroom to change into my yoga gear.  I was meeting Gina at Bikram and due to the class rules, the ones that were shouted at Mr. Bikram from a burning bush somewhere on a mountain, I had to be flat on my back in class at exactly 6:59.  I don't want to rock the yoga boat you know.

I realize left my flip flops at home.

So... I put my heels back on and headed towards my car.  Wearing inappropriately short shorts, a workout top, and heels.  Did I mention that I had to walk across one parking lot and through the loading dock, past 3 waiting semis with large burly men who probably haven't showered in 2 days?  The security guard gave me the once over, but not the "damn girl, where you goin?" look, the "damn girl, what are you thinking?" look. 
Really short shorts.  Shorts that highlight the abundant pasty flesh of my legs that I make me want to apologize to anyone and everyone who has the misfortune of seeing me in.  But Bikram is hot y'all.  Like summer day in hell hot with the humidity of say, Houston.  H.O.T.  So the shorts are the next best thing to a bathing suit, and I have a tad bit more respect for those in my yoga class than to subject anyone to me bending in ridiculous poses in a bikini.  For now at least.

So I walk as swiftly as I can to my car and head out. 

I call my husband to make sure he remembers I wont be home to make dinner.  Mid conversation I get a really awful feeling and as if the last five minutes haven't been humiliating enough, I start my period.
Ugh, I inform my husband because, well I was on the phone with him and wanted him to share in my misery.  I also inform him, I have no feminine products with me, and OMG what the hell am I going to do for 90 minutes bending and stretching in the heat without a tampon?
Husband says I should stop by the gas station.  He clearly doesn't understand the cardinal rule of Thou Shalt Not Be Late To Class This Is A DISCIPLINE YOU ASSHAT!!! 
I don't bother explaining just mention that I should get off the phone and call Gina to see if she has a spare tampon.
She does.  Thank God.

So Bikram starts.  I sweat.  A lot.  And I spend the next 75 minutes wondering why this bending hurts so damn much and how many days in a row I have to do this until I look like the instructor.  Serious body envy.  I am pretty certain it will take more than my next 6 free classes to look like her.  Oh well.

And then somewhere in between the rabbit pose and the roadkill pose, pose #205 of 26, my uterus decides to fight back.  And it hurt like hell.  And I started to focus on praying to be relieved of this pain either through a well-timed fire alarm or death.  My death or the instructor's death, it didn't matter.

The class finally ends and I escape to the outdoors.  A quick drive home and one lime coconut water later, I thought I was feeling better.  And then I buckled over in pain. 

Husband brought me 3 Tylenol and a cookie and I took my dinner of champions outside because I was cold in the air conditioning, and proceeded to promptly puke.  Seriously.  Bikram will f*ck with your system.  I think this is where the weight loss comes in.  The inability to consume anything for 12 hours after class.

And then I did the most logical thing I could think of.  I dyed my hair. And showered.

So now I am going to call it a night and pray to sweet baby Jesus and possibly Mr. Bikram to please please let this entire day have been a dream.  Or at the very least to remind me to pack my flip flops tomorrow.