A girlfriend of mine lent me a Denise Austin "Yoga for Buns" VHS tape last week to try out. "You'll love it," she promised, "it's the best workout ever!"
Pfftt. Puh-leeze, I thought to myself. This is yoga. Yoga is for pansies who can't bring themselves to do cardio but want to claim they "exercise" regularly. But since I'm an open-minded gal, I graciously accepted the loan and agreed to try it out. If nothing else, maybe it would be something I could do on my days off from running to help relax and stretch my legs.
That was before I was Denise Austin-ized.
I first knew I was in trouble when I was asked to hold a position ("just to warm things up") that left my lower body feeling like a bowl of overcooked oatmeal. Things only went downhill from there. Apparently, Denise had a vendetta against my buns and was taking no prisoners. Before long, with every new position, I began whimpering softly to myself, "please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me".
Denise Austin may look cute and friendly, but she's the devil, I tell you. Pure evil incarnated.
By the end of the half hour workout (I'm a marathoner, for crying out loud... I'll be damned if I wimp out and quit a yoga workout!), I was drenched in sweat and my entire body was quivering like a six-foot package of jello. Pick your flavor.
Thus, I hereby offer a heartfelt apology to all the yoga-ers of the world: Forgive me... I had no idea.
Please don't ever sic Denise Austin on me again.