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The other day, my Uncle Vinny asked if I wanted to go with him to a free yoga class that was being offered in his neighborhood.
Since I’ve been a bit stressed lately, I thought it may do me some good to try it out. I read that yoga offers benefits like relaxation and flexibility.
I searched for appropriate attire in my closet for the class but fell short, as the last leotard I had left in my closet was from the 1980s, when I was in high school and had feathered bangs. I tried it on just to see if I could still get into it, but when I heard all the seam threads snapping like rapidly twisting bubble wrap, I gave up. It was time to buy a new one.
Once I had my new leotard, yoga mat, towel and my orthopedic doctor by my side, because I’m old and out of shape, I was ready for the class.
What a nightmare. For starters, my uncle shows up in surfer shorts and a “wife beater” tank top, with loads of visible dark Italian armpit hair that garnered no shortage of angry stares.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, with his hind-end sticking up in the air during some type of yoga pose they call downward-facing dog, he lets one rip. Instead of simply excusing himself, he offered an excuse about faba beans from the night before. I was so embarrassed.
After his fumes cleared the room, he excused himself and left the studio. He came back 10 minutes later with a small cooler carrying a six-pack of beer, claiming he got thirsty. The dope cracks one open while the entire class watched him in disbelief – might I add that I was mortified.
I was never able to benefit from the relaxation that is supposed to accompany yoga, instead I just felt like rolling my uncle up in his yoga mat and tossing his body out onto the gym’s lawn.
At that point, I didn’t care that there was an off-duty cop also in the class.
After finishing his beer everyone refocused on the class once again but I could sense that the sign-up sheet for the next class would be hidden from us at the end.
As we all continued doing various poses, I got stuck in an unflattering position and had to have the instructor untangle me. I still don’t know how my foot even got that close to my ear.
Halfway through the class, Uncle Vinny decided it would be a good time to flirt with the girl posing next to him. He made a stupid remark like, “I’ll bet you’re a map because I just got lost in your scent.”
I almost barfed. The guy on the mat next to “map girl” was her boyfriend. He stood up and punched my uncle.
The instructor tried to break it up, but my uncle managed to throw a punch back, and the instructor got knocked out in the process.
It seemed as though by that time everyone in the class was so stressed out that the yoga was no longer working.
Needless to say, the cops were called, Uncle Vinny went to jail, the instructor went to the hospital and the other guy had to nurse his bruised knuckles with ice from my uncle’s cooler.
My dopey Uncle Vinny is the only one person who could turn a peaceful yoga class into a contact activity that involves the reading of one’s rights.
Anngee Quinones-Belian of Murphy is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her humor column runs every other week. Email her at anngeeq@gmail.com.