Sunday, November 28, 2004

Underneath my socks, there’s an endless story

I have one problem with yoga.

Do the yogis realize how traumatic it is for Miss Bloodied-And-Blistered-From-Breaking-In-Figure-Skates-And-Missing-Two-Toenails to be barefoot?

My little tootsies are more than slightly disgusting – they look like a cheap, raw steak with five partially-chewed Vienna sausages toothpicked to the end. My feet could serve as the body double for whichever perfect-footed Hollywood starlet plays The Amazing Firewalker in the next cinematic rendition of the lives and loves of circus freaks. My feet scare small children and no amount of L’Oreal Jet Set nail polish can hide their horror. Bet your sweet asses that I’ve tried.

Other than that, yoga class is pretty frigging sweet.

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