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Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Playing With Myself

When I was younger, my mom's tactic for getting me to get a chore done faster was to put me in an imaginary competition with a girl from a different country (typically Jamaica. Nope, no clue why).

"Skylar you have to beat the girl from Jamaica in unloading the dishwasher!"
"See if you can vacuum the living room faster than the girl from Jamaica!"
"I need you to take the dog on a long walk. Be gone...longer than the girl from Jamaica."

My mom is a scheming little genius, but this trickery instilled a lasting competitive spirit in me that has since caused me to seek and find the game in every situation. Why suffer through a nine-hour road trip when you could be racing on the real-life version of Need for Speed's Rusty Springs track? I need to unlock the secret ninth car! I want to drive the Warrior! The Mitsubishi Eclipse next to me doesn't know it but we're totally in two-player head-to-head racing mode right now, and I. don't. lose.


Life should definitely not be taken seriously, so if you need to participate in your own personal game show to get yourself through the day, feel free to get yourself started on one of my favorites:

Treadmill Races: Everyone does this. If you are side-by-side with someone on a treadmill, and you both happen to crank your speed up to 7 at the same time, it's so on. Once, I had already run my two miles and was about to slow down to a walk when a girl jumped on the machine next to me and immediately cranked it up to a sprint. Part of me thought, "Have fun with your shin splints, idiot," while the rest of me realized she was about to win. Win what? I don't fucking know, but I wasn't going to lose it. My inner Shaun T said to dig deeper, so I upped my speed to a 9.5 and prepared to dominate.
She totally noticed.
Other people totally noticed.

It was the most unnecessary display of female peacocking that has ever taken place inside of a university gym, minus the sluts in the corner successfully out-whoring each other with their thrice-rolled Soffe shorts. We hung together for about a minute before the awkward side glances started to happen, silently asking, "What is even happening right now?" Need I remind you that I'm not a quitter, so I ignored the gargantuan cramp developing in my ribcage and pretended like this was just a casual yog. This was a girl after my own heart, because she stuck it out for another 15 seconds before she let out a small gasp and desperately punched the keypad down to a cool five miles per hour. I'm a gracious winner, so I continued on for 30 more seconds before I calmly turned down to a 3.5. I went on to walk home like a newborn deer because my legs were completely shot, but whatever, I had Flo-Jo'd the shit out of that girl.

 Clean Up on Aisle 3: If I don't have a game plan upon entering the grocery store, it is a complete disaster and I end up panic-buying three bags of almonds, pizza dough, and a greeting card. A shopping list is not only an orginizational tool, it's a necessity. However, even with an outline of my needs I can still get distracted and find myself spending an inordinate amount of time comparing the protein amounts in various brands of hummus.

I came up with a solution to this problem by accident. I had been running errands all day and was starving, but the grocery store was the last stop on my itinerary so I just scooped a 32-ounce Gatorade and kept moving.
By the time I got to the parking lot I was legitimately in fear of my bladder. Boy, was she angry. Still, I needed food, and the Get Out of the Store Before You Pee Your Pants game was born. I was checking out, with precisely everything on my list, in 12 minutes. Now, when I know I don't want to waste time/money perusing the aisles, I drown myself in water and then do a little jig as I pick out my 10 for $10 yogurts before I speed home.

Secret Singing: I really get down with my bad self while listening to music in my car. If Rihanna ever had a freak vocal cord accident and needed someone to sing the rest of her set list, I could grab the mic and belt out both parts of "Stay" without issue. I took voice lessons for five years and, as the youngest child of three, am a natural-born performer, but I still have serious problems singing in front of people. Even within the confines of my car, where no one can actually hear the sweet magic coming from my mouth, I am self-conscious about the guy next to me on the highway noticing my solo performance. To avoid embarrassment, I have come up with a series of tricks that allow me to trust the voice within while appearing completely normal to the outside world.

1. Pretend to be on the phone - Unless you live in California, New Jersey, or any other state that prohibits cell phone usage while driving (safety first!), simply holding the phone up to your ear and singing your heart out just looks like a very passionate conversation to onlookers. Foolproof.
2. Nose scratch - The point here is to create distraction in the vicinity of your mouth. Just make sure it is very obvious that it's a casual scratch. Appearing to dig for gold is infinitely more embarrassing than being caught belting out "Timber."

3. Drinking from bottle - Pretend you're going to take a sip of water, stop short of getting any liquid in your mouth, and proceed sing it loud and proud. Bonus: it works as a mini microphone!

Six Degrees of Tanning Bed Music Separation: I will admit, this one is a bit excessive. You're literally just lying there, so you've gotta do something to stave off your mom's incessant warnings of skin cancer. A typical tanning bed sesh lasts about 12-15 minutes, or about four popular songs from 2007. Let's say these songs are "Buy U a Drank" by T-Pain, "Kiss Kiss" by Chris Brown, "Umbrella" by Rihanna, and "Good Life" by Kanye West.
Lets play: I clearly remember getting in trouble at a high school dance for grinding up on a kid from my math class too intensely (you're welcome, buddy) while "Buy U a Drank" played romantically in the background. T-Pain was also featured in Chris Brown's "Kiss Kiss" that year, and with two years before the Rihanna Smackdown would go down, those two were still cute together. Rih came out with "Umbrella," which I'm still not sick of, featuring Jay-Z. Jay-Z and Kanye West are butt buddies. Kanye had released Graduation aka not as good as The College Dropout and Late Registration and "Good Life" which featuuuuured...T-Pain.
Technically that's only five degrees of separation but I can feel my moles changing in color and border regularity so it's time to get out.

Honesty hour: who's pissed that this post had nothing to do with what the sexual-innuendo-laden title suggested? Thought so. Perverts.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Mayer

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!
In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

I dated my first bearded musician for about four months in college. He was a character from a romantic comedy come to life, and I ate that shit up like birthday cake. Have you ever been on a horse and carriage ride along the waterfront on an April evening? Like, that happened. Wasn't even my idea.

John Mayer was his idol, and he liked to [try to] play guitar for me, which always made me uncomfortable but I felt obligated to love it because that's what Rachel McAdams would do. I, too, was a huge Mayer fan, and we spent a lot of our time doing gravity bongs and then having in-depth conversations about the significance behind the albums and how the songs interconnected. The fact that I made it out of this relationship without dreads shocks me every day.

Unfortunately, he was super clingy and had a Chinese symbol tattooed on his calf, so I was forced to cut him loose. I really didn't think it'd be a huge deal, but he flipped the fuck out. Like, ugly crying, "you'll never find anyone better"ing, slamming doors IN MY APARTMENT, crazy-girl madness. I half-assed an apology and got him to leave so I could go to the bars with my friends.

That night, and for several days weeks following The Break Up, he would randomly text me John Mayer lyrics that I guess he found applicable to our relationship.
"Can we plz talk tmrw? I cant let just let u walk away. There I just said it, Im scared ull forget about me."
"Id like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve, so Im not gunna lose n e more sleep over u."
"Ill make the most of all the sadness. U'll be a bitch becuz u can. We were slow dancing in a burning room r whole relationship, I shoulda seen this coming."

It was fucking hilarious. And also sad. My friends couldn't get enough of it, and to this day I can text one of them something like, "Do you want extra cheese on the pizza?" and get the reply, "Twice as much ain't twice as good and can't sustain like one half could. But ya!"
-- Her Body is a Wonderland

Thursday, April 3, 2014

6 of my Favorite, Most Unladylike Parts of Skirt Season

A photo exists of me at about age two playing in the snow. I am tiny, holding one of my signature Snow Babies (literally a squash-sized pile of snow. My sculpture skills improved with age to include more anatomically correct attributes, like a neck), wearing a bright purple jacket and snow pants with mittens that definitely extended beyond my fingers by about two inches. The picture is, in a word, adorable.

What makes it even more adorable is the evidence of one of my weirdest/most deep-seated quirks that still thoroughly defines me today. I was wrapped tighter than Randy in A Christmas Story ("I can't put my arms down!"), but sticking out from under my puffy coat was a little ruffly dress. As a toddler, I insisted on wearing a dress at all times, so a skirt peeking out from where it shouldn't be was nothing out of the ordinary.


I have almost recreated this look a million times this terrible winter. I like wearing sweaters and boots and earmuffs, but make obligatory small-talk with the meek finance guy in the break room and even he would blurt out, "I don't know how much more of this I can take!" Side note: this might also be the exact point that he's snapped. Make friends quick, he's going to set the building on fire. I still love dresses. Hiding my man calves under a layer of tights and dress pants (I don't fuck around) has been so depressing. They didn't deserve to be in leg jail! They want to breathe! I could be unknowingly developing cankles! This is torture, Mother Nature!

Needless to say, I've been desperate for Skirt Season. I realize that any man reading this just let out an appreciative, "Damn straight!" but I'm willing to bet we have different agendas.

For guys, Skirt Season means legs and possibly even some donk should a Marilyn moment occur.

For girls, it means an easy outfit that's cute and feminine.

For me, it means something much more inappropriate than that. Here are my six favorite, yet most unladylike aspects of Skirt Season:

1. Maxi dresses let you sit like a man: "Wanna come over and watch the game?" "Wanna go on a picnic at the park?" "Wanna watch a P90X DVD while we eat Doritos?" I would like to do all of those things very much, and I will do all of them sitting spread eagle. Know why? Because I can. Where mini's and midi's advertise your hoo-ha when you move your knee a quarter of an inch any which way, maxi's are the friend that says, "Let loose, girlfriend, I've literally got you covered" to which I reply, "I love you so much, Crotchless Yoga Pants."

2. Constant Air Conditioning: Remember when the picture of Fergie from The Black Eyed Peas surfaced where "it looked like" she had peed her pants, but she just said she was really sweaty? First of all, that was a lose-lose situation, amirite? Second, had she been wearing a skirt, her Londy Londy Londy would've kept its cool and/or she could've let the River Thames loose and no one would have been the wiser. I love the fact that while I'm twirling in a skirt, it appears as though I'm having fun and being dainty. Not the case. I am actively creating a breezy environment from the waist down. I am a human oscillating fan.

3. Jump out of bed ready for the day: As in, I could wear a casual dress all day Friday, get home late and get straight in my bed, wake up the next morning, and immediately walk out the door to meet a friend for brunch, and I would have been comfortably and appropriately dressed the entire time. It's hard enough for me to take my own shoes off before I tuck myself in for the night--completely change from one set of clothes to another? Child please. The dress accepts my laziness and celebrates it. You gotta love an article of clothing that will change its name to "nightgown" just to make you feel better about your life.

4. Feign interest: Sometimes, I go on dates with people I'm not the least bit interested in (yes, I'm the one they've warned you about). It's not for attention or because I like to toy with people's emotions, I would just rather have plans than not. Simple as that. Throw in free food and an awkward story to share later and I'll go out with just about anyone [hot]. Date night outfits can vary depending on my level of legitimate attraction towards a person, which can get tricky. How do I decide the difference between an "I like you!" outfit vs. an "I haven't been grocery shopping in a week so yeah let's go to California Pizza Kitchen" one? The great thing about dresses is that they do the work for you. My mind says, "Oh my God are we going to talk about your fucking triathlon training this entire dinner?" but my dress says, "That's so interesting! Tell me more about the difference between your off- and on-season caloric intake percentages!"

5. Food baby disguise: Fourth of July is my jam. Beer and grilled meat are the foundation of our beautiful country, therefore patriotism demands that we consume as many of each as we possibly can with a large group of friends and an arsenal of colorful explosives. Unfortunately, Old Glory can cloud your judgement and suddenly you've downed six hot dogs faster than Joey Chestnut. A crop top would totally bail on you in this situation but a sundress steps up to the plate and conceals your bump without restriction. Go grab yourself a slice of apple pie, Baberaham Lincoln, no one has to know.


Enough said.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Kasually Kidnapped, Part 2

[cont'd from Part 1]

"Wait, turn the cab around, I think I left my phone on the table."
"No you didn't, I checked the table before we left."
"Can we please just turn around and check? I need my phone."
"It's not there."
"Can we PLEASE just turn AROUND to get my PHONE. PLEASE. PHONE. PLEASE."
"We'll find it."

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck, I was stuck in a cab with a full-blown sociopath. I was digging in between the seats when the cab stopped in front of a place that was not where my friends were.

"Where are we?"
"My place."
"Okay better question: Why are we here?!"
"I thought we could hang out and watch a movie."
"I need to go back to my friends right now, you need to take me back to them right now."
"Let's just chill a little longer."
"My phone is gone and I have no idea where I am or any way of telling them where I am. They're going to be worried, we need to go back there."
"No. No 'eh.' Take me back to where they are right now."
"Do you wanna play with my dog?"

I wanted to cry but couldn't. This had gone from bad to way, way worse, and I was desperately wishing I had attended that Krav Maga class with one of my friends a few years ago. I knew how to break someone's nose (shove up with the heel of your hand), but that was the extent of my self-defense training. Why hadn't my brothers and I held Wrestlemania in the living room over Christmas for old times' sake so I could brush up on my skills?

I quietly stood/sat on the arm of the sofa while Gavin obliviously played tug-o-war with his dog, Griff. Griff kept shooting me looks as if to say, "The back door's unlocked, save yourself." I shot looks back saying, "Please be gentle when you gnaw on my freshly-murdered flesh."

I asked Gavin if I could use his phone to call my friends (forgetting the fact that memorizing phone numbers is a thing of the past so I was still screwed), but his was conveniently dead. I was visibly defeated.

"I hate it when you're upset like this."
"What do you have to compare it to?"

I told him that I just wanted to sleep, clarifying after his eyes lit up that I would be doing this relationship activity by myself on the couch. He said I could take his bed and he would take the couch, once again being sure I realized how much of a gentleman he was. I ignored him and walked back to his room to lay on top of his covers and stare at the ceiling. Of course, he followed me and stood in the doorway.

"Is this our first fight?"
"Yes it is."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Please go away."

Trouble in fucking paradise. I'm typically a pretty good problem solver and quick on my feet, but this was a situation. I laid there for a while, going in an out of sleep, not worrying about Gavin coming in and attacking me because I had locked the door. At one point I got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw Gavin and Griff canoodling on the couch, probably plotting which section of my body would be buried in which part of the yard. Gavin had taken off his sweatshirt and thrown it to the side, and there was something sticking out of the pocket.


"Is that my phone?"
"You're awake?"
"Did you take my phone??"
"Oh cool it's here."
"ARE YOU CHARLES FUCKING MANSON WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?! I'm leaving, you need to drive me to my car."
"I thought we were gonna chill?"
"You hid my fucking phone from me you psycho, nothing is happening here. Let's go."
"I can't drive, I've been drinking."

Nice try, Beyonce.

"It's four in the fucking morning you idiot, at this point you probably have half a buzz but you are not drunk by any means. Get up and get your fucking keys, you're driving me to my car. I can't believe this."
"I have a company car, Skylar, I can't get a DUI."
"You told me yesterday you drive the truck given to you by the construction company, Gavin, it's not a fucking Rolls."
"You know my name?"
"Jesus Christ."

This exchange went in circles for the better part of ten minutes until he finally begrudgingly got up and put on shoes.

"Babe, I hate it when you're this upset."
"You've known me twelve hours. Stop talking."

He insisted on bringing Griff along, so the happy little family climbed into the truck together. I felt exhausted, guilty, and extremely stupid, and this was only amplified by Gavin continuing to speak to me as if "this" would continue past him dropping me off.

"Babe I'm sorry."
"Do not call me that."
"But we're dating."
"No we're not."
"Didn't we have the exclusivity talk last night?"
"You have my number right?"

Praise the Lord and His miracles, we made it to my car and I still had all of my toes. As you can imagine, he definitely tried to kiss me good-bye, to which I shoved Griff in his face and jumped out of that truck as fast as possible. I know that most people struggle the morning after Sunday Funday, but I think I beat anyone's hangover by leaps and bounds today.

Moral of the Story: Stretch Armstrong might've looked like a circus freak, but at least we can guarantee he loves Creatine more than he'd ever love me. Better safe than sorry.

Kasually Kidnapped, Part 1

Yesterday's Sunday Funday turned into a hostage situation.

My friends and I were drinking brunch, and since I'm both a conservationist and a giver, I was foregoing the orange juice part of the mimosa equation so that everyone else could have some (I know, right? So selfless). We were having an awesome time when I noticed a group of visually appealing guys walk in.

Six mimosas glasses of champagne had inevitably given me a boost of confidence as well as a dire need to haul ass to the ladies', so I took the long route around to walk by this group and examine the prospects. There were five of them: Bradley Cooper, Stretch Armstrong, Sasquatch, NotMyType, and Gavin. I returned to our group to find that all the champagne was gone, so on to red wine we would go, which called for a trip to a bar and OH HOW CONVENIENT these boys were in a prime spot.

I was gunning for Bradley Cooper but unfortunately he was standoffish (such a waste of a good face) so I swiveled and met Gavin. He was a solid 7.5 to the 10 that Bradley had established, but at least he didn't have the lumberjack beard that Sasquatch was rocking and wasn't at eye level with me like Stretch Armstrong and his roided out biceps were, so he had earned five minutes of conversation.

In that span of time we somehow established the "We're dating" shtick, which seemed a lot more clever at the time. All of what you're about to read aside, the guy's kind of a genius, because this gave him the perfect segue into asking me on a coffee date right on the spot. We left brunch and started walking to a place down the street when things took a turn for the What The Actual Fuck.

As we walked, he started asking me about my past relationships. 'Taking this shoddy inside joke a little far, buddy,' I thought, but I just kind of glazed over it with some response about how all of my exes are now friends so I was pretty lucky. This did not satisfy him.

"You've clearly never had a real man show you what you deserved."
"Wait what?"
"If you'd ever dated a real man you would have been treated like a princess."
"You'll see."

Yikes. I suddenly remembered that I don't even like coffee, but we were there, and I figured the sooner we got this done, the sooner I could say thanks and then go back to the comfort of my friends. Unfortunately the love life interrogation only intensified.

"Are you ready for a relationship right now?"
"I mean with the right person, yeah, but I'm not really-"
"I am very ready."
"Very ready."
"I believe you."
"Are we dating?"
"No seriously, are we dating?"
"Wait what?"

ABORT ABORT ABORT. The "where r u??" texts from my friends had started rolling in so I recommended that we start heading back, as pleasant as this experience had been. Gavin claimed he was now starving, and I had getting the sense that he wasn't one to get hangry, so I said we could grab something really quick at the place next door.

"But like, really quick, my friends are waiting."
"Are you one of those girls that doesn't eat?"
"Haha no I'm just not hungry right n-"
"Get something to eat, I hate girls that don't eat."
"I can and have demolished an entire veggie pizza by myself, man. I'm not in the mindset for that right now, I'm good."
"I'm taking you on a date, you should eat."

Before I was just annoyed; now I was getting a little scared. This was like the opening sequence of Law and Order: SVU in so many ways, and Gavin was starting to strike me as someone who had an expansive collection of windchimes made out of ex-girlfriend's bones. Benson and Stabler, save me!

Throughout the meal, he continued to inform me that I had never been "treasured" by a "real man" and described all of the activities we would do together now that we were dating. These included going to wine tastings (he was a self-proclaimed connoisseur), joining a couples' flag football league, making me his amazing Stuffed Tilapia ("I'm not a huge seafood fan, actually." "You'll love this." "Allllrighty then."), and taking his puppy on walks. Yay. After the mention of each of these activites, he would ask, "We are dating, right?" and I just laughed nervously because it was my only defense.

We finished eating and I hightailed it for the door, wondering how I always seemed to get myself into these predicaments. It was getting dark, so Gavin called a cab because I apparently looked cold. He made sure I understood how chivalrous this was and how he was such a thoughtful boyfriend. Cabs move faster than feet--he could've called me a rickshaw and I would've been grateful. I made this quip; he did not find it amusing.

I reached for my phone to text my friends that I was coming back and could we please not mention what a dumbass I was when I realized that it was gone. My phone was not here.

[cont. to Part 2]

Monday, March 3, 2014

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Tucker Must Die

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

Last summer I started hanging out and hooking up with this 27-year-old babe who appropriately earned the name John Tucker. We got along great and the sex was awesome, but he never fully wanted to commit, and I knew he had another girl that lived in Philadelphia. Proximity and convenience trumps everything, so I had the upper hand (except when she would come to visit. Whatever).

This past July was about the one year mark of us doing whatever we were doing, and I asked him about this girl--who we'll call Philly--and what she was to him. He promised me it was nothing.

Wrong, obviously. He ended things with me to be with her, and she ended up living with him for the summer. WELL, we all played on the same softball team together and as much as I wanted to be a bitch, I really did like this girl because she was actually super nice. Fuck me, right?

Fast forward to the end of July, and John Tucker left Philly at one bar to come to another bar with me, a minor detail I wasn't aware of until later. She ends up meeting us at that bar anyway, and while we're all standing in line he breaks up with her with me standing right next to him, telling her he's not over me. So. Awkward.

So Philly moved back to Philly, and everything between John Tucker and I was great. It really seemed like we were a legit couple...up until he went an entire weekend without talking to me, that is. It was Labor Day Weekend and I get on Facebook to discover that he went to the beach with her. Spectacular.

Safe to say that things were over for good when I screen shotted him a pic of them together and he responded with, "Yeah I need to talk to you about that." Yeah, don't bother.

--Fresh Princess of Bel Air

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Are you doing Ananda Balasana, or are you just happy to see me?

Body Pump. Zumba. HIIT Treadmill workouts. Kickboxing. This is how I roll in the gym. I am entirely too wound up for anything that requires a clear mind, deep breathing, and Enya, and I don't feel like I've actually worked out unless my thighs are shaking on the drive home and I have sweated off all of my self tanner.

That being said, I needed a change. I basically only use a handful of machines, the Bosu ball, free weights, and resistance bands if I'm feeling nastay, so my gym visits have gotten old real quick. All of the cool fitness classes--like Total Body Conditioning and Belly Dancing--take place while people that aren't stay-at-home moms are at work (those bitches get to have all the fun), so my choices were limited to basically...yoga.

Yoga it is!
I can do yoga!

...I cannot do yoga. My yoga experience is isolated to a single afternoon where I attempted the hour-long P90X Yoga X DVD and quit after 20 minutes because I was bored it was too hard. Like, my dog was laying on the floor watching me and left because he was embarrased by my attempt at Warrior 3. I'm one of those people that will forego an activity altogether unless I know I'm the best at it, so this one instance entirely turned me off from yoga. However, given a newfound interest in self-growth and my lack of class options, I decided to follow the eternal words of Aaliyah and dust myself off and try again.

First, I needed a yoga mat. I knew that if I was left to use the dingy ones provided by the gym the threat of ringworm would convince me to never, ever attend a class. Plus, those mats are all ugly and I wanted a pretty one, so I dropped $25 on a beautiful purple number with a swirly paisley print. I put it in the front seat of my car to remind/shame me into taking it with me the following Monday night, which I technically did...

I just didn't attend class. For two weeks straight, I proudly carried that mat into the gym, proudly locked it in my locker, and proudly carried it back out to my car without so much as unrolling it. I meant to go to class, I really did, but OH NO my 5-mile bike ride overlapped the beginning of the class by 30 seconds and I couldn't very well walk in late, now could I? OH NO my hand was cramped up from lifting weights and I heard wrist pain is a serious problem for yoga newbies. OH NO what if my pants are see through?! Damnit Lululemon, get out of my head.

I woke up yesterday disappointed in myself. "Just fucking go, you little shit, you're so annoying," my abusive inner voice said, and unfortunately, that girl ain't neva lie. Go. Go go go. Go! I got ready for work repeating this mantra, threw my gym bag together, and prepared to let this cloud of Ohm hang over me all day until I pulled into the gym parking lot that night.

In the locker room I pep-talked myself in the mirror, not worried about the old Asian lady getting naked in the corner hearing me because God knows she couldn't give less of a shit. I was here early, mat in hand, pure yoga focus. Yogus. Foga. Fyogas? Froyo sounds so good right now. GET IT TOGETHER, SKYLAR.

I got ready to change clothes and was met with an entirely new challenge. Do not laugh at me because this seriously almost changed the entire course of the evening and I really did consider cutting my losses and going home:

I wear really bright workout tops because they make me feel important, so that morning when I spotted a heap of pink on my floor aka my second closet, I had assumed it was the top that makes my boobs look good and immediately threw it in my bag. When I pulled out the hot pink workout leggings that I impulse bought a month ago, I actually almost threw up. We're not talking socially-acceptable pink, or even colorful-but-not-obnoxious pink. These are blinding. I already had enough anxiety going into this night, and now I had to do it in Malibu Barbie's clothes? Good, great, grand, wonderful.

Luckily, I did not go home. I put on the leggings. I grabbed my mat. I washed my hands (?). I walked out of the locker room and ignored everyone who couldn't avoid staring at me because HELLO it looked like I had been wading in highlighter fluid. I filed into the room with the rest of the yogis and unrolled my mat (hooray!) next to a small, seemingly non-threatening man who was possibly a jockey.

Right off the bat, some girl in the front row pops up into a forearm stand and I let out an exasperated, "Fucking really?" Kentucky Derby to my left definitely heard me but I just looked at him and shrugged because whatever we were all totally thinking it. I sat in a butterfly stretch nervously glancing at my other opponents and realized that I was definitely too competitive to be here, but it was too late because the tall, blonde waif of a teacher had just walked in. Heeeere we go!

Cynthia introduced herself, letting us know that this was a beginner yoga class and that we should all be very aware of our breath and our presence in this space while clearing our minds. So think about being here but don't think at all, got it C-Dawg. I wanted to ask her if she saw the circus freak in the front row balancing on her pinkies and if she considered that to be "beginner" because if so, I was out, but I kept my mouth shut as she turned off the lights and turned on the sound of crashing ocean waves.

We opened our hips, stretched deep into our shoulder blades, engaged our cores, rounded our backs. "Now feeeeel your spine elongate into a stronnng column." I can't, Cynthia, I have scoliosis. I really did try to focus on my breath and just chill, but it was like every memory and random thought that I've ever pushed to the back of my mind came stampeding to the forefront. Credit card payments, grocery lists, who last borrowed my red dress, ex-boyfriends' birth dates, Leibniz's notation (HA just kidding)--everything was clamoring for some action.

While the actual "centering" of myself was hard, the moves were not. Apparently that 20 minutes of P90X was all I needed to master the basics, because Gumby up front and I were going toe-to-toe in terms of who would be named Team Captain (they did that in yoga class, right?). I even managed a decent shoulder stand! My once-rubberband-like hip flexors were still struggling, but regardless, as the ocean waves provided their final soothing crash and we all namaste'd, I felt like I had done pretty well.

The official name of this class was Gentle Yoga, so I think my next venture will be Hatha Yoga or maybe even Power Yoga to prove that I'm a bawss. One day I hope to sweat my demons out in a Hot Yoga class, but given the fact that a heart attack over my outfit almost derailed my initial effort, I'll give that one some time. Will I give up my cardio seshes? No, because they regulate my cookie intake. But anything that will break Adam Levine and his model fiance up and finally show him how perfect for each other we are is enough to keep me going.