I Can't Believe I Tried Yoga

I'm sure my Dad would regard my continuing experients with new activities as more evidence to add to his screed against "the increasing pussification of American society" at large, but hey, that's what crochety old men are for, right? (Happy 50th, Big Poppa!)

Nevertheless, finding myself purchasing a yoga mat at Target this week of, ahem, my own free will, makes me realize that Pops is onto something. And even if my employer is subsidizing yoga classes at a can't-beat-it $5 a session, and even if I do like to try everything at least once, and even -- no, especially -- since I kinda liked my class and the attempt to make myself bend like The Human Gumby kicked my ass, I suspect I scored a 8.2 on the self-emasculation scale.

Did I mention that I was the only guy in my class? Hell, did I even have to mention that?

And yes, for the record, I am going back next week. But I have seven days in between to drink bourbon and kill people with my bare hands. You better watch the fuck out, 'cause I'm limber now.