I just can’t catch a break. It’s either me going to pick up dog food in my pajamas next to Kellan Lutz or having a Ryan Gosling look-a-like at the grocery store thinking I am buying Vagisil when I am actually buying tampons (the latter being less awkward). Ugh.
I am going to spare you all the details of how I just recently started a new lady regimen because all you really need to know is that I had massive cramps today, of all days.
I walked in to Bikram Yoga class and there was a (I kid you not) Superman look alike. Seriously, if this guy’s name was anything but Clark Kent, you can just picture the look on my lady problem brained face.
And by the way, do you KNOW how miraculous it is when a man does not have a wedding ring on? I mean, don’t get me wrong, if I were married, I would be all for it, but in this town, every man, yes even the scantily clad men in Bikram Yoga, have wives. Superman over there? No ring. And even if he were married, at least he left quarter life gals like me with some inkling of a sense of mystery. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t daydream my way through class.
(Let me just add that in Los Angeles, there was no mystery. Everyone was single, and most of them were douche bags. This little daydream sesh was needed. Even if I have proclaimed myself “closed for business”.)
Daydreaming about Clark Kent over there did not help. I learned one thing in class today: Bikram and any sort of lady problem do not mix. And NO, (at least this is what I am telling myself, and it is probably true) I don’t think my knight in shining armor noticed little old me quietly leaving class. Yoga forces concentration and true narcissism, for at least 90 minutes.