Hot yoga: heat should not always result in nudity

Last night I completed my third day as a bikram yoga student. The first time I ever took yoga was working with a Beginner's VHS tape when I was 18, and it's slowly graduated to this: bikram yoga, where the temperature is raised to 105, allowing you to really sweat your ass off. If you've heard the workout results in what appears to be the yogee to have jumped into a pool, it's true.

(This often results in a few stares from the community I bike through afterward. I don't blame them: my sports bra sweats through the shirt I wear, leaving these big (or, not-so-big) sweaty prints right over my boobs.)

The class is comprised of many different types of people. We have men, large men, skinny-tall men, (un)flexible men. We have women, large women, skinny-tall women, (un)flexible women. And what I love, we're all scantily clothed as you have no idea how much 105 degrees hits you when your yogic for 90 minutes.

So last night, I was in the Tulandandasana pose (see right). You're supposed to look toward the mirror in front of you, which sounds like a good idea...unless you're Tulandandsanaing behind the same girl I was last night. I look up to face the mirror, and home girl was not wearing any underwear.

I completely understand that your knickers get a little swampy, and I'm all for women's liberation, but OMG...at least wear pants or long shorts. Something other than what a roller skater from the 70's would wear.

Maybe I'm acting a bit prudish about the event, but I couldn't keep my pose. It reminded me of the Friends episode when Pheobe's boyfriend's genitals kept popping out from underneath his shorts. Just knowing it was there, staring at me like I was guilty for being in the second row, I ended up standing most of the pose.

So ladies, men, whatever you do, wherever you go, when you're in yoga class, remember to put your pants on.

Griller sans la buerre

I once read that the origin of the word (and musical genre) "Zydeco" came from the Clifton Chenier song "Les Haricots Sont Pas Salés," which means the beans aren't salty. This was in reference to the Louisiana-based singer being too poor to provide salted pork for his beans. The actual word Zydeco is a corruption of the shortened "les haricots."

During this economical crisis, or the intertia of it's trough, I can't help but modernize by own "les haricots." After one of my biggest clients was busted running a Ponzi scheme worth $11 million, I've added on 13 offices and lost the next few months of commission. I am able to pay my rent and most of my bills, some gas and even afford a new bit of mascara here and there, but other than that my means are rationed. I've taken to canned vegetarian chili ($3 at Trader Joe's - delicious!) and water crackers, and making the meal spread over 2 days. A hard-boiled egg or instant oatmeal is close to doing to the trick in the mornings, so I feel relatively covered.

However, this morning I found myself toasting high-fiber bread...and realizing I have absolutely no butter, no jam, no spread whatsoever. And the $50 in my checking account I have to live on for the next 6 days is inspiration enough to eat the toast dry. I can't afford the butter.

So I have decided I am going to start my own line of music, my own corruption of the phrase "griller sans la buerre: the toast without butter."

This is what my life has come to.