In which the blogger discovers the impurity of her soul...

So I went to a Yoga class today. I figured, since it is Vancouver's main pastime, I should give it a go!

Now, there was a chance that I inherited a Terrible-at-Yoga gene. My dad lives and breathes yoga - it changed his life. My mom, after listening him rave about the benefits of yoga for years, decided to join a class. For those of you who haven't met my mom, she is a very fit lady, and can pass for 20 years younger than she is. 15 minutes into her first yoga class, she ran from the room to puke her guts out.

I thought I'd be okay, though. I figure-skated for almost 20 years, and had no problem with whirling at breakneck speed around the ice. My coach used to make me spin for 3 minutes straight, while timing me with a stopwatch. Dizziness was never an issue, and a lot of yoga poses are quite similar to figure skating poses.

I picked a Hot Yoga class, which I also thought would be okay. I love the heat. I'm more comfortable in 40 degree heat than I am in an air-conditioned room. I was in Greece in 2007 (remember the year with all the wildfires and the record-breaking heat?) and just loved it. I was the only one out exploring while my tourmates suffered, with the AC blasting, in their rooms. So, Hot Yoga - no sweat! (har har)

15 minutes into the class, I started to feel, well...funny. "Breathe it out, just breathe it out," I reassured myself. 30 seconds later, I was in the washroom with the dry heaves. 15 minutes later, I told myself, "Okay, you got through it, now finish the class!" 5 minutes later, I was lying on my mat watching the the room spin. That was the end.

I left, still clutching my stomach in agony, while all around me happy voices cried, "That was sooooooo much fun! I want to do it EVERY DAY!!!!!"

So, has this ever happened to anyone else, or do my mother and I need exorcisms, pronto?

Remember this guy?

This is Manuel Uribe, the 2007 world record holder for Fattest Man, en route to his wedding on a flatbed truck. His wife, Claudia Solis, is actually quite an attractive lady. Now, I don't mean to belittle Manuel's condition, or the power of this couple's love. But...don't you think this story proves a point? That dating is soooooo much easier for men than for women?

I mean, really. Guys, you can literally weigh a ton, never leave your house, and require a "specially designed ramp" in order to have sex. But still, some beautiful woman will magically appear and fall in love with you. It's not fair.

Pick up any women's magazine and you'll notice that its main subject is Keeping Your Man, as if men were the most skittish, impossible-to-please creatures in the universe:

Date ideas to Keep Your Man!

Makeup, fashion, and hygiene tips to Keep Your Man!

Celebrities who have Kept Their Man, and how!

Celebrities who have not Kept Their Man, and why!

Are you too jealous? Are you not jealous enough?

Are you too flirty? Are you not flirty enough?

Are you too distant? Do you need to give him more space?

The rules of Keeping Your Man are enough to make a girl's head spin. And even if you follow every rule to the letter (even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff), it's completely futile. Because men ARE the most skittish, impossible-to-please creatures in the universe. One day you'll look at him the wrong way, or Saturn will be aligned with Sagittarius, and he'll be on the first bus to Splitsville.

It's just not fair.