Vomiting at Bikram Yoga, Old Nudes at the Hotpools ...

30^th July 2012

I barely hairly knowly nearly wherely to start! So much is going on. Had an uh-maze-ing weekend. You know how I was doing the integration of the male aspect of myself when I went to Tracey (Beyond The Veil)?  Okay, fo’ shizzle on my dizzle, but I think it’s really HAPPENING. 

This integration (done as a visual meditation/healing session) meant finding the parts of myself that can, plainly speaking, get my shit sorted. I have a fully developed Poet and Sage (according to Tracey, and seeing as I’m so in love with myself these days, I see no reason to argue it). It’s the Visionary and Manager/Director aspects of myself that have been missing. Since I fell in love with Me the other week, I’ve noticed that these aspects of myself have increased in presence and strength. I’ve been making decisions about what I want to do, and within one week or a day, it’s falling into place. Sometimes within a minute.

I did experience a massive wave of stress about a week ago when I decided I really wanted to do the Hypnotherapy Training, then realised I was going to have to make money for it to happen. By 5.45am I’d applied for a job that should fit in with doing another contract for SETAC when that starts up again in October. It’s likely I’d still need benefit assistance with accommodation costs etc, but the main thing is that I’d be able to pay for the Hypnotherapy course.

On Friday I was in so much pain (my left shoulder and neck) that I could barely function.  I’m used to being in pain, but when I was doing Bikram Yoga (yes, say what you will of the man, but the yoga is great) pain issues were resolved within two to four sessions. I figured that one $20 class was more economical that getting a massage. The only other way I’ve successfully dealt with pain to the same degree was when I used to go swimming twice a week, hatha yoga twice a week and walking about an hour four times a week, and it took about three weeks to get good relief. Economically and time wise, Bikram or Hot Yoga is much more sensible.

So off I trotted, and because I’ve lost four kilos I noticed it was a lot easier to do than last year. I thought I’d find it really hard, being in pain and all, but instead I kept up quite well, stopping and resting if it felt too intense. It was when we’d done Camel Pose that I suddenly felt a bit squiffy and weird. 

This is roughly as far as I can go when it comes to Camel. This photo is from Bikram Yoga, Richmond Hill.

Edited note: I think I'm confusing camel and something else ... but it's the one above as well as the pose below that really bought it on.

Picture is by Andrew Woodburn.

I stood up and looked in the mirror (I was right at the front by the stage, it’s an unforgiving place to be). I thought ‘oh, am I feeling sick?’ and then my head felt all cottony. I lay down and looked up at the instructor and pointed at my mouth. This was my way of saying “I do believe I may chunder in the class”.

She nodded ‘leave the class if you have to’.

I wanted to. Oh god. I really did. But suddenly I was loose and numb. I tried to pull the towel further out as I realised what was coming, but I couldn’t even move my hand. Paralysed by nausea, weighted with lead cotton, the watery oat-filled vomit gushed forth and pooled across the towel on my yoga mat, and then slightly beyond. It was very fortunate that there was no one immediately to the right of me, the direction in which I spewed.

Wave after wave heaved out of me. The most beautiful woman in the room, another Bikram instructor, came to my aid. She got another towel (pristine, white) and shored up the area as I continued to gurgle and groan. After about the fourth wave  (mostly water it seemed) she tentatively asked if I could move.

“Nghahhh. Can’t move. Sorry. So. Sorry” I replied, feeling like my eyes were rolling back in my head. I had a sense of regret for all the people in the class, but one of my main thoughts was ‘please do not let me also shit myself’.  Fainting is kind of adorable, vomiting is gross, but shitting yourself in yoga class? Priceless. I knew if that happened I might never return. Fortunately for me, after about six more loud and lively chunder blusses, I was done. Suddenly I felt so light and clean. The lovely instructor  helped me up, not seeming to mind assisting a sweaty, vomitty woman at all. I sat on the cool floor outside the room and she got my drink bottle and replenished it with electrolytes and more water. She went into the room and gathered up my delightful towel and yoga mat and put them in a well sealed plastic bag for me to take home. She said that if you’re in a lot of pain, that can cause you to vomit. This made sense, and I also think it’s that particular pose, Camel, that really gets me. Last year, when I was depressed, I could not do it at all. If I tried, I would get overwhelmed with emotion, and I’d end up lying on the mat crying quietly.

I went and had a shower, got dressed, ready to go and meet a man for a drink. There’s this thing on Facepooh that I joined which is a bit like internet dating, but I'm not sure I have time for it these days.


 While I was getting ready, the instructor came into the changing room and asked if I was okay. I was all ‘oh yeah, I feel great now!’. She said she hoped it wouldn’t put me off coming back, and I said ‘oh not at all, I just can’t afford the classes at the moment’. She said ‘well we have a cleaning job going … one night a week and you get free yoga’.  Well smell, who’d have thought that spewing in yoga class would lead to such great rewards? So now I’m going to clean one night a week and go to yoga three or four times a week.

Feed me, or I'll scratch your couch, piss on your bed and vomit on  your favourite rug.

The drinks date was okay. The guy wasn’t bad looking, but he was an accountant. It’s like meeting another breed of animal or something. I immediately told him I’d just been sick, and he didn’t laugh, he looked a bit grossed out, so I knew this wouldn't be a match made in Heaven. He was flirty though, kept trying to find ways to touch me, but he also flirted awkwardly with the young waitress which I found a bit sad. She had fantastic tattoos of feathers on the inside of one arm which made me think of my old work friend from Sadlers, the one I called Feather. I asked if I could look at it more closely, and then chatted to her for a minute and then Accountant says

“So you must have a feathery touch?” and smiled in a way that he must have thought was charming. We both looked at him like ‘what?’ and he repeated it. Oh, ha ha ha we politely smiled.

Now don’t get me wrong, an awkward or try hard flirtation isn’t the worst thing in the world at all. It’s nice if people give it a go, and I’ve done far worse. I called a hot waiter boy ‘sweetie’ awhile ago, and promptly slapped my hand over my mouth and apologised.  Sexism or even a hint of condescension, especially to waiting staff, is just not cool. Yes, they’re serving you.  Yes, they might be hot and more stylish than you. This doesn’t mean they want you to imagine their feathery touch. They’re probably finishing their PHD in Something Mind Blowing, or doing a yoga course, or possibly have their own business making mosaics.

I didn’t dislike the Accountant at all, but I must admit, he wasn’t very exciting. He didn’t challenge any of my ideas, and the fact that he was squeamish about vomit annoyed me. I like my friends to be quite sturdy about these things.  When I related the vomit story to any other friend, their eyes lit up with delight, just as one would hope. It’s always fun to share your humiliations with someone who cares. What's a little vomit among friends?

On Saturday I recovered from yoga and spewing, then went to the hotpools with The Painter. God he makes me laugh! When we got there, we were surprised to find it was Nude Night. You know what that means. Lots of old people who have reached the point in life where they just don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of them and they’re gonna let it ALL hang out baby. 

The least pervy picture I could find of Little Annie Fanny.

Painter was alarmed at the possibility that it would be compulsory to get our kit off, but of course we were welcome to remain clad. I personally love getting naked, but preferably in nature and not within jizzing distance of a stranger. Yes, perhaps I’m a prude or making assumptions that just aren’t fair, but most of the men reminded me of the cartoons in ‘Little Annie Fanny’, it was a strip in the back of playboys back in the 70’s. Even at five these pictures had an amazing impact on me. Often the cartoons depicted Fanny in a see through baby doll nightie being chased by old men grabbing her breasts. From what I could gather all anyone wanted from her was her body. 


No one wanted to draw pictures with her, or just sit and talk with her. I would look at the pictures and wonder why all the men were old (mustaches featured heavily), and why didn’t Fannie put some clothes on and get out of that situation. I thought ‘well she must want to be there’ but I couldn’t fathom why. Of course I couldn’t ask mum because she would have told me off for reading her adult magazines.

By the time I was 10 I’d found mum’s Penthouses and studied the stories closely trying to figure out what men wanted, if it really was just big breasts and a see through nightie, or if there was room for girls with glasses, red hair and freckles who liked to read, draw and go to the beach.


 By the time I was 11 I knew that  I would one day be expected to give good blow jobs, but I hoped I wouldn’t have someone put their penis up my bum at the horse races.

One story that stayed in my head was told by a young guy who informed the reader that he was really good looking and a ‘jock’ (a term not used in New Zealand), but that he loved obese women. He shared his story about living next door to a really big lady, and how he fantasised that she also had a really hairy pussy. I think I read this story about four times in one sitting. It didn’t turn me on at all, but I was very interested in what the guy said, how he couldn’t admit to his friends that he liked big women, that he maintained a popular façade by going out with ‘hot chicks’. I thought ‘well, maybe someone secretly likes me then. Maybe someone will like a girl with white skin who can't run very fast.' That was all that mattered at Whangamata School in the early 80's, you had to be brown and good at running.

In the story, the Jock helps the woman with her groceries one day, but as he takes them from her, they slip and spill on the floor. They bend down to pick them up and he is overcome with lust and ends up doing her in the hallway, absolutely creaming it when he removes her giant pants to find a luxuriant bush of pubic hair. All he’d ever hoped for.  I found the whole thing a bit sad. He doesn’t go and hang out with her and get to know her, he keeps it as his fat, hard little secret. He continues to go out with skinny girls, thinking of the big woman’s folds of fat and plush pubis as he pumps away at some cheerleader. Even at 11 or 12 I felt sorry for this guy. He cared more about what other people thought than what would have made him really happy. I also thought it was just as strange as only wanting a woman because she has great big boobs and blonde hair. Was Anne of Green Gables wrong? Was Pippi Longstocking wrong? Did an inquiring mind and a pocket of talent not matter? Of course, all these characters were only that. Characters.

I was to eventually find out that there were boys who did appreciate me, but of course it coincided with gaining confidence in the way I looked. I had a feeling I would be late to the party, and I was correct.  This had many benefits, but that of course, is another long story.

What was I talking about? The hotpools. Lots of older, naked people. Big ladies, men with tiny dicks or big dicks, weathered skin, beautiful pale fat flesh shining in mineral water. The Painter noted correctly ‘you don’t even notice it after awhile’. It was only when someone walked past with their graying pubes at eye level that I’d wonder if it was rude to look away.  I wanted to remove my bikini top, but I just didn’t feel relaxed enough. If there were more spaces in our togetherness (ha ha)  I think I’d have gone for it, but this was way too intimate. I noticed that other younger (under 50) people kept their togs on too. There were about four exceptions.

As I say, getting nude is great, but I’m looking forward to doing it on a hot day at the beach where there’s a good 20 metres between me and other nudies. I don’t really want to be seen in that particular context. I just want to feel.

Afterwards I made Painter put on one of those face masks that cost a dollar in Korea, the ones that are like a cloth soaked in moisturizers. He agreed to this weakly, being completely shattered from working all day and then half sleeping in a hot pool full of pre come and flakes of skin.  We couldn’t stop laughing as the mask itself is absurd and doesn’t fit the face properly at all.

Dropped the Painter home and wished him well on his journey. He’s off to Europe, the lucky bitch. He’s got a friend/ex lover who lives over there and so they’re travelling around for about five weeks. I expect he shall have a lot of fun. Trains! Frankfurt, Paris, Berlin! Art! Stuff! He’s bound to come back saying ‘oh you should see the light in Berlin, it’s completely different from New Zealand. Paris? Some might say it’s overrated, but I felt right at home there. You must go one day!’

On Sunday I met up with a guy regarding nannying for his son, then parked in Ponsonby, walked into town, got tickets for ‘The Eye Has To Travel’ at the film festival, walked back to Ponsonby and took at look in this industrial/antique design shop. A hot girl was making coffee instore, and god it was good! I felt a bit high on everything, went to Grey Lynn and picked Tienke up from her work and then swooped back into town. Snarfled around looking for a free park, then decided to just suck it up and pay for the parking in front of the Silo Theatre (or Basement as it’s now known).  As I pondered the fact that it was coins only for the parking,  a guys was leaving and handed me his ticket (valid till the following day!). I yelled ‘I love you’ at him as he handed it to me.

The movie was good. I wish I could imitate Diana Vreeland, she was one amazing stick. The opening line was so funny, something like ‘First of all, one must arrange to be born in Paris …’.

Of course it was a completely different kind of satisfaction from seeing Beasts of The Southern Wild, but still really enjoyable and quite moving too.

Beasts was just incredible. I had to put my hand over my mouth to stifle sobs now and then, it was that good. After the movie, I dropped T back at her work, then drove into New Market and met up with Handsome Rob at Archie’s Pizza. He shouted (again) and it was divine. Such good pizza.

Then it was home again, home again, jiggity jig. It’s pouring with rain. I’ve decided to change Tosca’s name to Peachy. She’s never really been a Tosca, that was changed upon the ex boyfriend’s insistence once we found out she was a girl. I said a girl could still be called Oscar, since she’s, you know, a cat. It wasn’t to be, and so Tosca has been thus named for about 11 or 12 years. Time for a change. She is now dubbed ‘Peachy’.

Today I am going to clean my dressing table,  go to the Laundromat, then get to Yoga!

It’s a good life. I can barely keep up with it.

Love to you all!