ANXIETY HELL

Some time late last year, I found myself chugging upwards of half a gallon of eggnog per night, as I found it a pleasant palette cleanser between boxes of See’s chocolates. Worries of salmonella and starring in a televised addiction intervention could not dissuade me from pouring the thick god nectar down my pie hole canal. Fifty gallons in and I began toying with the idea of adding Richard Simmons videos and costumes to my Kwanzaa list. Compounding the problem areas known as my whole body, were my frequent visits to the all-night diner my birth mother* calls her kitchen.

 

*She hates when I call her my death mother. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why strangers ask me what orphanage I’m from when I refer to her as Birth Mother in public.

 

“Egg Donor,” I said, one wintry eve, whilst attempting to quash my eating claw’s proclivity for robotically jerking its way over to the rooster-shaped dish in front of me and picking up the stick of butter like some prize stuffed animal in an arcade machine and jamming it into my open gob. “What are you making me for supper?”

 

“Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pie,” she said. She then screamed at the obese family dog to back away from the oven before he “burned his beautiful fur coat off.”

 

With a great heave she hoisted a giant roasting pan out of the Plath-killer and over to the granite-topped island where I supervised, taking copious mental notes. She slammed it with such violent fervor that I wondered if her Ove Gloves did not have the maximum flesh protection their infomercial boasts. She shook the residual heat from her hands while screaming “Yowza!” and I ignored her cry for help and instead looked upon the vessel in which she’d baked my “vegetarian” stuffing.

 

I eyed the sick beast sprawled out before me, shaking my head in dismay.

 

“When did Ralph’s start selling pterodactyl carcasses and where is my Tofurkey, damnit?”

 

“Nikki! Don’t say bad words and it’s not a pterodactyl.”

 

“Pshaa, woman. I’ve not seen a sky beast so large since my days of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse. You killed Pterry! Now how will neglected children celebrate the word of the day?”

 

“Oh, stop. Have some more eggnog,” she said, by way of silencing me.

 

I obeyed, but only because it was Lite.

 

After dinner, I scanned the room for a rogue Rascal I might ride to the bathroom, but could not find one. Angry at having to walk the thirty paces to the room of rest, I grunted and glared and pulled myself up, nearly turning the dinner table into a seesaw with my great heft. When I finally completed far more exercise than I’d have liked, I locked the door behind me and turned to greet my twin self in the freshly-Windexed mirror.

 

Turning sideways, I lifted what should have been a muumuu and stared agog at the eggnog that was now bloating my belly to Octomom proportions. Only this was before that pop culture reference would have made sense (as I am not an employee of Miss Cleo) and so I instead thought my belly bore an uncanny resemblance to a snowman. Yes, the three thick rolls of white flesh could easily stand in for Frosty in a North Pole police line up. I considered busting out the camera tripod, stripping nude, save for a top hat, scarf, and corncob pipe, and getting a jump start on my holiday cards for the next year. But that all seemed like a lot of effort, so instead I stooped back into a pie digesting torpor and did what I’m best at: digesting pie.

 

As fate would have it, I friend introduced me to her yoga instructor at a birthday party not long after I’d begun training to compete in the Glutton Bowl. When the instructor invited me to attend a class at the studio where she taught, I took one look at her figure and decided that if I could look like her while still failing to contract anorexia nervosa on a daily basis, I should at least consider giving it a try. But I had worked so hard to customize my sedentary lifestyle to fit my lethargic needs and I wasn’t sure I wanted to interfere with the steadfast habits I’d cultivated.

 

Just then, she lifted her drink and I saw the muscles in her arm contract in such a way that I thought, “Why she is the perfect combination of body types: three fourths Portia de Rossi thin and one fourth Madonna muscular.” I had a quick mental image of where I might land on the celebrity fitness chart and saw myself in the passenger seat riding home from the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet, weeping that it hurt too bad to buckle my seatbelt over my swollen marsupial pouch, and then dropping my eating claw down upon my unzipped pants. In neon letters the words AL BUNDY flashed above my mental image of myself. “Why I must give this yoga a try.”

 

The first thing I noticed about yoga class was the man in front of me. It appeared he had unfettered access to Will Farrell’s wardrobe from the movie Semi-Pro. Decked out in ’70s-inspired regalia, from his terry cloth head band, to his ass-cradling daisy duke short shorts, he stretched before me, shirtless. On the celebrity size chart, he’s was coming in somewhere between Rosie O’Donnell and Snuffleupagus and I, for one, approved. But what really drew me in and made me decide I loved yoga class before it’d even begun, was the mural of a ravenous-looking tiger tattooed across his back. In vibrant ink, bright blue waves splashed out around the tiger so it seemed to be leaping out of the sea to attack what would be a very confused beach-goer. The man’s impressive smattering of back hair poked through the tiger’s body and thus created a fine 3D display akin to a live zoo exhibit. I gazed at it with much admiration every time I got bored during pashnaramadan-glockenshpiel* pose. *May not be actual name.

 

The second thing I observed about the class was that I seemed to be smelting to death. There was no convincing me I wouldn’t be reduced to a human puddle by the time the teacher said Namaste.

 

Thirdly, a pungent scent wafted through the air. If Air-Wick were to capture this heady fragrance, I’m quite sure they’d name it Decaying Feral Dog Wrapped in Old Sweaty Carpet. It made it hard to comply with the constant refrain to “inhale deeply through my nose.” To be fair though, I think a disproportionate amount of the scent could be attributed to the eggnog sweating forth from my pores.

 

But it didn’t take long to become inured to the smell and every time I felt like complaining, I needed only to look around me at the toned, sweaty yogis whose hard, nubile bodies gave me much inspiration to press on.

 

I’d say the most difficult part of my first class, besides the constant urge to projectile vomit and pass out from the heat exhaustion, was my longing to rehydrate with eggnog. I had a thirst only the nog could cure and I kept having visions of myself wearing a gray hoodie and dumping a glass of the yellow egg juice down my throat while “Eye of the Tiger” blared in the background.

 

But alas, I could only quench my need for liquids with boring old water and even then I was only allowed to sip hydrogen and oxygen after suffering through multiple postures, many of which made my face turn purple. For once I am not employing hyperbole. My face actually turned bright strangulation-grade purple. I’d be hanging upside down, twisted like some Cirque de Soleil freak, listening to the instructor say this particular pose improved the complexion, only to look up and nearly scream in terror at my reflection. It looked like Satan had possessed me. I’m talking a purple so deep it was almost red. Almost burnt sienna.

 

Somehow I survived Intro to Masochism 101 and boy, was I happy I did. Because once the hour and a half ended, I realized I hadn’t been that happy to have survived a traumatic experience since I’d watched The Wiggles during a rough bout of babysitting duty.

 

For a long time I viewed hot yoga as a recently released prison inmate might view his time in the clink: It sure sucks when you’re on the inside, what with the incessant commands to bend over, but once you’ve done your time, you have a whole new appreciation for life on the outside.

 

After many sessions, the bile rose up less and less in my throat, and the black fog of unconsciousness only threatened to knock me out an average of two times a session as opposed to the previous ten times a session I’d experienced.

The other day I had a great class and felt rather pleased with my practice. As I lay in the final dead body pose, I realized I had gone a whole ninety minutes without worrying about anything, including when I’d get my next pie fix, quite possibly for the first time in my life. It was only when I left class and got back into traffic that my view of hot yoga changed.

I still think of hot yoga as prison, only I’ve become the old dude in Shawshank Redemption who wants to kill himself after he’s released, not while he’s doing time. This, to me, signals improvement and I’m proud of this shift. I’m proud to say I now truly enjoy hot yoga and only the occasional glass of eggnog.