Manorexia

This is just going to be a silly, little entry as I've absolutely nothing going on at the moment.
Tonight, I took my first 8.45pm yoga lesson. I know that sounds a bit late, but the time really suits me. Plus, I can just go on home and crash at 11pm... and I mean CRASH - it's hard yakka! (Aussie readers - have I spelt that right?)
Anyway, I realized in the lesson tonight that I have way more 'junk in my trunk' than Japanese people.
You see, the room is all mirrors, and as I was lying there, face down, all the Japanese folks had these two little 'eggs in basket', while I had this massive, fat ass stickin' up in the air.
I'm tellin' ya, continued yoga will drive me manorexic.
Asian people are just built differently. I often feel like a freak in the lessons as my outstetched arms cover, like, three times the distance of everyone else's.
I'm really not worried about losing weight, though. I think this exercise will hopefully build muscle. My goal is to have a six-pack by the summer. I've never had one before.
Although, I am genetically predisposed to one as my father is blessed with a keg!.... badoom tish... thank you, I'll be here all week.
I was also confused about locker-room etiquette today.
Usually I don't say a word to the other students. And I certainly don't encourage conversation. But today this guy struck up a conversation with me from between cubicles. I mean, you each have your own separate shower cubicle, and the dude is shouting through to me like we're best friends. I was severely discombobulated. In fact, in my confused state I think I washed my face in hair conditoner. But sure what harm.
Apart from the social boundary I felt he was crossing, I couldn't hear a freakin' word he was saying over the running water.
It's just like at the hairdresser. They don't say a word to you until your head is back, full of suds, and they're washing away at the old follicles. Then, they're talking sixty to the dozen.
Or, like at the dentist when he asks you all about yourself while there's half a drawer of dental intstruments jammed between your gnashers.
Discomobulated, I tell ya!
That reminds me of going to the hairdresser for the first time when I moved to France. I'm nothing, if not a stickler for precision. The hairdresser told me, as she was washing my hair, 'Penchez' ('Lean'). So I did. I leaned forward and got a stream of warm water right down the back of my neck.
Through their gallic chuckles, I tired to recapture what little was left of my dignity and said coldly, 'You have to tell me which way!'
Anyway, sorry for this stream of consciousness waffle, but I really have nothing going on.
Happy Birthday, Dadsy! Sorry for the keg crack.