Folks, I've got to get something off my chest. And no, it's not a third nipple.

I've got a secret. A burden. A large weight dragging down upon my conscience.

Here goes: Guys, I've been taking yoga.

That's right. I should be out getting hammered at bars, but instead I've been sneaking off to a Bikram yoga studio and twisting myself into a pretzel in a room heated to 105°F.

I'm officially new age. And with a BMW in the garage (okay, it's an '85), I'm also a yuppie.

I am a new-age yoga yuppie. And I can't get enough.

It's an age-old story. My friend Roomz got me addicted. Like all hard drugs, he ensured that the first sweaty, back-breaking, tendon-stretching hit would be practically free.

"Just try it," he said. "See if you like it. Everybody's doing it."

So I tried hot yoga, and over the course of a 90-minute class I sweated off six pounds and re-injured every body part I'd ever hurt during my 30-year existence.

Surgically repaired knees? Aching. Bad ankles? Swelling. Fractured lower back? Well, I wasn't laying on the sidewalk to look at the clouds.

How could I be addicted to this torture?

Well, after class finished, when the instructor turned down the lights and told the class to relax as my baking skin crawled, I was not addicted. No monkey clung to my back. I just wanted to cool down in the shower. Maybe see a team of doctors

But instead of heading directly to the nearest hospital, I made the crucial mistake of stopping at a bar for a beer. That's where the addiction kicked in.

I may have ordered Pabst, but I swear that brown bottle was filled with ambrosia, brewed with heavenly hops and virgin Arctic snows. I sucked that Blue Ribbon down with the speed of a Kapalabhati breath.

And the next bottle? Just as fast, just as good--as was the one after that.

For an hour I was Mr. Good Time Yogi--buying drinks, laughing, on top of the enlightened world.

Then came the crash. I grew sluggish and dizzy. My face became cold and pale. My skin was ice.

I slept for 12 hours that night. I needed three days to recover. On the fourth day, you know it--I was right back at that yoga studio, right back at that bar.

I've now got a three-yoga-plus-beers-a-week habit. And I've added another vice to my jones.

First, yoga. Second, beer. Third, anything with melted cheese.

Yoga? Yuppie? Where does Metromix find you tools? Okay, why would I thank anyone for allowing Mac's to exsist? It sounds more like you have an identity crisis, but that's okay I have the solution. First, look around for the tallest building. Second, climb to the top and jump. Problem solved loser - nice reply by the way, however I'm not into the SMD -

wow, for someone who "hates" these posts, this Joe guy sure has a hard-on for you.

lamest.
troll.
ever.

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