Category Archives: Pilates

Getting Your Lady Parts Stoned

Abe VagogaGetting my lady parts stoned was never on my ‘to do’ list.

Every time I think that I’ve put writing about the magical powers, and storing capabilities, of the vagina, behind me, I get sucked back in. Yes, I realize how that sounds.

I stumbled upon a product called Foria. It’s been around for a couple of years but it’s only now that I’ve gotten hep to it. Where have I been? Clearly hanging out where the word hep is used I’m guessing.

Foria is a lubricant that contains cannabis: a gentle mix of marijuana and coconut oil. FYI, coconut oil can prevent yeast infections. Yet another use for that ever popular drupe (not a nut).

I’m old school. Cocaine in the vagina, sure that I’ve heard of, but getting my vagina wasted? Uh…

Foria can be used as a de-stresser, to relax the pelvic floor and to enhance sexual pleasure. So can Pilates.

I’m not sure I want my cooter to be tripping. It’s already pretty trippy. If you get your vagina high, a side effect may be that it will feel loosey goosey. I can’t speak for other women, but I’d much prefer mighty tighty.

What if my cooter gets the munchies? Do I spoon feed it a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a sleeve of Oreos? I suppose I could grab a handful of vegetables, which is good because my cooter is a healthy eater.

Foria Relief is a suppository that one can stick up either orifice. It’s supposed to help with symptoms associated with a women’s menses. But why stick it in your bum? Hemorrhoidal pain? These products are not FDA approved and Foria Relief is only available in CA. Just my luck.

As I surfed the internet, falling further down the rabbit hole, reading about vagina toking, I came upon a new yoga for the vagina called Vagoga. You call it Vagoga, I call it Pilates.

Stand by for my thoughts on reusable menstrual pads from Torjacek Farms. Not a joke, wish it were.

Barry White Was In My Mat Pilates Class

celebritynetworth.comBarry White was in my mat pilates class today, which is super weird because he’s been dead for 12 years. Fifteen minutes into my instruction, between the exercises, rollover and teaser, the following blared through all ten speakers in the enormous fitness room.

Oh, baby, oh, baby
(Keep on)
Come on, baby
(Keep on doin’ it, right on)
(Right on doin’ it)

You got it together
(Baby, keep on)
Oh, you got it together, baby
(Right on, keep on doin’ it)
I will get it baby, oh, I will get it
(My my baby, keep on)
I swear you got it together, baby
(Keep on, keep on)

I knew the lyrics to the song therefore I knew what was coming up, and I started to feel very self-conscious. I felt compelled to address what I perceived as the elephant in the room before I led the class in the abdominal series and leg circles.

I was certain that some of the participants laying supine on their mats with their legs spread eagle were silently (unlike Barry’s deep bellowing vocals) questioning my inclusion of Mr. White in my pilates playlist because it clearly, and most obviously, did not belong in the rotation.

What did they think? I was’t trying to set the mood, hoping that I would get laid once the class was over. Was I? The subconscious mind is a crafty one.

This particular playlist was made for the road trip that I took a month ago with my ex-boyfriend’s daughter. We wanted to expose each other to new music and I thought, hey, she should know Barry, although thinking about it now, it might have been an odd choice.

I forgot that I had included Mr. White, when I chose the playlist for class on this particular day. “Before we continue, I must say something. Yes, you are hearing Barry White, and I apologize.” As I continued to explain, the following provided the soundtrack.

I’ve got to keep you pleased in every way I can
Gonna give you all of me as much as you can stand
Make love to you right now, that’s all I want to do
I know you need it, girl and you know I need it too

You know what I needed? To stop talking. Instead, I spoke faster and incoherently. “I know it’s weird because you know what Barry songs are usually played for… I wanted you to know that I know and…”

Great, now the class thought that since I had consciously chosen to add the sexy mood music to my playlist that I was having sex, and sleeping around, and there wasn’t time to tell them about the road trip and…

Never, never gonna give you up, I’m never, ever gonna stop
Not the way I feel about you, girl, I just can’t live without you
I’m never, ever gonna quit ’cause quittin’ just ain’t my stick
I’m gonna stay right here with you and do all the thing you want me to

Thank god the class laughed at my idiocy, and neurosis or else my idiocy and neurosis would have been for naught. Now reading these lyrics again I see that Mr. White sings, “I’m never, ever gonna quit ’cause quittin’ just ain’t my stick.” Stick? What does he mean? What stick? I always thought he was saying, schtick, as in, quitting isn’t his thing, his bag, his gimmick.

I have to ask myself, why would Mr. White, the bass-baritone romancer from Galveston, Texas, and Grammy Award winning sexy soul and funk singer of raunchy lyrics use the Yiddish word, schtick, anywhere in his songs?

I’m just thankful that I didn’t sing along in class, or I would have really looked like an idiot.

How Time Flies… And So Did I

Screen Shot 2014-06-28 at 11.01.30 AMHow time flies… and so did I.

In her autobiography, Good Morning, I’m Joan Lunden, Joan wrote, “4:30am comes around very early.” I couldn’t agreed with her more. A year ago this week, I got up at the butt crack of dawn, to attend my very first Pole fitness competition. I had only been pole-ing for six months, but I say go big, or get off the pole.

I rode my bicycle to the theater, as a feint drizzle fell onto the dark city streets, and onto my freshly flat ironed hair. I wondered if rain was good luck on competition days like it was supposed to be on wedding days.

Since day one, straddling a 45mm in diameter chrome pole had agreed with me. The world outside, with its stresses, noise, and ex-boyfriends, disappeared. My laser focus was on squeezing the bejesus out of a pole between my legs, without falling on my ass, or my head, onto the hard wood floor. My inner thighs were bruised, my knees looked like I had been whacked by the mob, and the tops of my feet were scratched and red. I was in love.

It had been a challenging and sad time, but somehow it motivated me to trot out my ‘to do’ list, which included activities that I had meant to explore but that had not yet found time. Now was the time.

When I started pole-ing, it was impossible for me to climb to the top. I would get frustrated and I couldn’t wait for the class to end. I shrugged off my inability by telling myself that it wasn’t something that I wanted to do anyway, and who cared. I wasn’t in it to become a professional poler, although secretly the thought had crossed my mind.

Some of my predilection for quitting stemmed from fear; most of the time it was fear. Would I be good enough? Couldn’t the first draft be the final draft; metaphorically and literally. The pole wasn’t any different. Why couldn’t I touch the ceiling on my first try? As a Pilates instructor, did I tell my clients who struggled with a particular exercise that they sucked and that they should quit and try Yoga? No. No, I did not. Why would I expect that from myself?

The following week I attempted to climb up the pole again, and after several tries, I made it to the top of the chrome behemoth. That climb was for every karate class, piano lesson, gymnastic team, tennis club, and acting workshop that I had quit.

The over 40 category was called the Master’s group. I thought that was a tad misleading. I wasn’t a master of anything- yet. I waited in line to check in, and I nervously watched women wearing leg warmers, and not much else, stretch, kick, bend and twist, as they warmed up. Was I really going to dance on a pole, half naked, on stage, in front of strangers? Unlike stand-up comedy, where I could hide behind jokes, and self deprecating humor, the pole was too thin to hide behind.

My fellow contestants practiced on the poles on stage, under the lights, taking turns, running through their routines. The space felt a lot bigger than the one around my pole in the middle of my living room in my apartment. When it was my turn, I hummed the music in my head, while I kicked, straddled and threw my body around.

When I finished, I walked back to the end of the line, which moved slowly. I told myself that I didn’t have to run through my routine a second time. The beauty of getting older is knowing your patterns, if you’re paying attention and the lies that you tell yourself. If I did a poor job during the competition, I had an excuse. I could blame it on not having enough practice time. 

Nothing good, or productive, has ever come from that attitude, I know. I’ve tried. I got my booty shorts-wearing- pole-ing ass back on the stage and took another spin.

As sad and disappointing as it, the Pole was not going to be a new career move. Oh, sweet lost potential. A part of the struggle for me was realizing that not everything that I did, or tried, had to have a material, or financial pay off. Doing something for the pure joy of it, was enough. 

I waited in the wings. I stared at the pole. My only job was to have fun, and not fall. I took the stage and danced my Masters heiny off. My body gyrated, and I slithered on the floor, without thinking about the choreography. I may have blacked out—hard to be sure.

I skipped offstage when I was done, adrenalin pumping, and a Master grin on my face. I heard the Stage Manager say, “Keep doing this.” Yes, I think I will.

When I got home and I changed clothes, I noticed that I had been wearing my booty shorts on backwards. I suppose the up side was that they weren’t also inside out. To my humble surprise, I placed second. Maybe I will consider a career move.

Fat Free Vaginal Yogurt

Vaginal YogurtIt seems that unless I have the words, vagina or hand job, in my posts, people don’t seem to be as interested. Hmm.

That speaks to the world we live in, and to the company that I keep online, doesn’t it.

It was suggested to me by one of my Pilates clients that I write about a woman who made her own yogurt from her vaginal secretions. There, I said vaginal. Happy?

Cecelia Westbrook, an MD/PhD student at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, decided that there wasn’t enough information out there on how to make yogurt with vaginal bacteria, or about vaginal bacteria in general. Cecelia wanted to right that particular wrong.

Perhaps there’s a dearth of information for several reasons. 1. Who the f’ cares? 2. Who the hell wakes up one morning thinking about how to DIY yogurt with her lady juice? 3. We know plenty and there’s no good reason to dig any further. 4. Scientists are too busy curing cancer.

“Can I make a dairy product from my vaginal flora?”

Was this  burning question keeping Cecilia up at night? May I suggest that she read a book, or DVR The Voice, but for the love of all things Dannon, please keep the wooden spoon out of your hoo hoo hole and use it for stirring the pasta sauce, like one is supposed to.

Nobody paid her to perform this NASA-worthy experiment. It was her own curiosity that led her to ladle out her secretions. When I was a kid, my curiosity led me to the candy store to buy pop rocks and soda to see if I would explode, like Mikey did. Or did he.

On the other hand, if Cecilia’s experiment worked, she could save a lot of money, not having to buy yogurt. Have you seen the prices on that Fage lately. I guess that’s what dairy crack cost these days.

She spooned herself out into a bowl and the next morning, she ate herself. (pause for childish giggle) She said that she tasted, er, rather the yogurt, tasted sour like Indian yogurt. Ms. Cecelia just compared her vaginal yogurt to Indian yogurt and India took a hit.

I think the FDA and some other agency weighed in and concluded that vaginal secretions were not food and for Cecilia to read a book.

Cecelia should apply herself onto her face as a moisturizing mask, and/or a hair conditioner, like the rest of us do with semen.

 

I Flashed My Boob

BoobpadIn an effort to look bustier in my super tight sports bra, and not like a ten year old boy, I slipped a couple of pads in, taken from another sports bra. Why I didn’t just wear that one is one of life’s great mysteries.

The sports bra was so tight that I placed the pads right between my skin and the fabric, feeling confident that they weren’t going anywhere.

Off I went to teach my Pilates mat class. In the back of my mind, I chuckled because I thought about what would I do if they fell out during my class in front of 85 students. My confidence betrayed me.

I was barely ten minutes into class, when I looked down and saw the brown edge of the right boob pad peaking up from my sports bra, singing like Diane Ross, “I’m coming out. I want the world to know, got to let it show.”

The studio had two walls of mirrors and two walls of glass. I was trapped. I had been in similar situations and each time I’ve come out a stronger, and more dextrous person. I’ve removed countless bras without taking off my shirt (what woman hasn’t) I’ve swapped out feminine products while driving a car. I had this.

It was just another embarrassing and awkward moment, in a long list of embarrassing and awkward moments. I had to be brave. I had to show the kids how to look adversity in the face and give it the finger.

I went into def con MacGyver mode and walked to the back of the studio. I instructed the class in an exercise that would bring them down onto their backs facing away from me. As they were scissoring their legs, I contemplated shoving the pads down instead of removing them. And then I remembered not to be dumb.

I removed the left pad and held it for a nanosecond, while I thought about where to put it. I certainly couldn’t keep holding it. I couldn’t stick in the box that held the Pilates magic circles. I suppose I could’ve thrown them into a corner and retrieved them later but my aim isn’t the greatest and what if it landed on someone’s head?

I only had a nanosecond, as stated above, so I stuck it in the tight waistband of my pants.

I walked back to the front of the room, as I had to remove the right pad. The class had already done a 130 scissors, so it was time to switch sides. While they scissored, I scanned the room and removed the right pad and stuck it into my waistband. Whew, that was close.

Just fifteen minutes left of class and I was home free. It wasn’t to be. My boob pads had now become ass pads. I wondered if anyone saw what was happening. Do her boobs look smaller but her ass larger? Wow, Pilates sure does work quickly.