There’s been many times in my life where I feel like my children have tried to kill me. I vividly remember my first brush with death courtesy of one of my kids.
It was when I tripped over my son’s 3,449-piece Lego Death Star resplendent with many pointy pieces and then fell right on top of his Lambda-Class Imperial Shuttle where I was impaled by the “stationary center foil.”
For those of you uneducated about Star War Legos in layman terms this means I was stabbed by a collection of Legos shaped like a prison shiv. I believe the only thing sparing my life was the fact that I had on a brand new sports bra resplendent with fresh Lycra which acted as a trampoline bouncing my chest off the toy and thus saving me from a direct hit to my heart.
Now, what I didn’t expect as a parent was that an adult child would be able to orchestrate my death while living almost 2,000 miles away from me. But yet that is what recently happened via a Christmas gift from my daughter.
The gift in question was a yoga mat that was accompanied by her persistent urging that I try hot yoga. I thought this was odd since even the most distant of acquaintances know I abhor the heat. To me summer is my season of suffering.
But alas because I’m a mother who yearns to make her children happy I told her I would indeed give hot yoga a try.
I have never taken a yoga class in my life and most certainly I have never embraced an activity where you willingly enter a climate-controlled environment that starts at 95 degrees. Yet, a few nights ago there I was laying my yoga mat in a room that felt like it was hot enough to melt the iron in the Earth’s core.
Adding to the ambience of doom was that the room was so dark it had all the appeal of a haunted house. The only light source was the exit sign by the door.
I, trying to be an optimist, told myself this was good because it meant no one else in the class could see me embarrassing myself. Of course, it also meant I couldn’t see what the instructor was doing but, oh well.
At first I tried to lean into the heat, imagining I was in a steam room at a fancy spa. But then I got distracted because my leggings were so wet I feared I might have wet my pants. I quickly surmised that my bladder had remained stalwart and that it was the heat making me feel like I was marinating in a vat of moisture comprised of B.O. and tears.
After 20 minutes I surmised that the reason the room was void of light was so that no one could see you cry. After 45 minutes my thought process had progressed to forget about crying. I needed prayers.
When the torture/class was finally over I ran outside coatless and rejoiced in the cool winter air. The next thing I did was call my daughter and ask her why she wanted me to die? After all her dad has oodles more life insurance.
She laughed and told me that hot yoga was good for me. I sighed and confessed that moving forward I would have trust issues with our relationship. This made her laugh more and now I’m worried I might have raised a killer disguised as a hot yoga enthusiast.
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Snarky in the Suburbs 