So I went to yoga class last night. Gulp. “Hoo boy.” (Say in Tom Scharpling voice.) This was the worst yoga experience of my life. I swear we spent like 20 minutes face-down on a wooden floor trying to lift our legs up in the air. That felt good … NOT!!!

Then she had us go into some kind of discombobulated pigeon pose that made no kind of sense. I almost had a leg spasm, trying to reach around and grab my ankle which was like a quarter-mile away (I’m tall).

And … no warrior pose? Are you kidding me? Jeez, lemme bust out a warrior pose! Warrior 1, Warrior 2, I don’t care … just let me feel like a bad-ass for a minute. No, instead she had us doing lunges — my least favorite yoga poses — hips getting all diagonal and legs trembling and trying to lean forward and getting all sweaty and wobbly. Blecch.

At the end of the class, when the teacher said “Namaste,” I yelled out “I DON’T THINK SO.”

(Just kidding … had to get in some classic yoga humor, there. You know me and my pixie-ish whimsy.)

Anyway, it was good to have a bad yoga experience, I suppose. Usually I feel good after yoga and I think “Man, I’m glad I went to yoga.” But last night, I was like “Goddamn you’d think after 3,000 years they’d figure out how to make this not totally suck.” But they can’t break me! You’ll see me back on the mat before too long. You can’t keep me down; I’ll pop off a fat tree pose in 2 seconds flat, don’t tempt me …