i saw some guy's balls tonight!

it didn't require me to get any unsuspecting individual drunk.
or necessitate dishing out any money.
and most notably, i didn't even have to ask.

in an effort to detoxify myself of my recently escalading quarterlife depression, a counselor recommended i try yoga.

now, we rodriguezs do not exercise. the doctors in our family subscribe to the notion that we are born with only a certain number of heartbeats, and by exercising, thereby raising one's heart rate, we are just setting ourselves up to die sooner.

but i've been so wound up lately that i thought yoga might have some takeaways on relaxing and breathing the way a normal individual -- one who isn't balancing academic trouble with single-handedly holding her family together and deciding the rest of her life in the next two weeks, might do.

so i dug out the black yoga pants (the ones i bought on a whim about four years ago when i first failed to become a yoga connoisseur) stuffed in the back of my dresser drawer, put them on, and dragged my ass to the studio. i always dress for the occasion.

ladies and gentleman: tonight's ineptitude is only matched by my ability to screw up tanning (see fake baking).

i'm not sure why i have no problem writing a doctorate level thesis while in college on the severity of psychopathology in comorbid patients, but i can't fucking figure out how to do yoga well.

hey yoga studio.
harvard called.
they want their idiot back.

i proved tonight that not only am i bad at finance and accounting and calculus, but my inabilities and handicaps extend into quite a fine menagerie of life activities. and yet, somewhere in between the doggie-style and missionary warrior poses, the testicles of the guy in front of me became readily visible. i'm not talking like i-see-the-outline visible. i'm talking like full-on-hang-out-i-know-that-he-shaves-his-balls visible.

tonight, not only did i realize how to better utilize my flexibility, but also i learned that in the face of balls, my maturity level drops to that of a twelve year-old. because it doesn't matter if you're ten or twenty-five: "testicles" are funny. "balls" are even funnier.

and so while i walk away from the yoga experience a whole lot sweatier, much more aware of my limitations, and very sore, i'm not sure if i'm any more relaxed or if i can breathe any easier.

but at least i got to see some balls, right?

and as far as i'm concerned, there is no better measure of a good time.