TEAM LAST CALL

For example, there is my inability to throw out a tissue, because maybe, just maybe, there is a useable inch on it somewhere that might come in handy later.

And there’s my mental blockage that prevents me from putting my clothes into the hamper. Instead, I’ve created a clothing purgatory on the floor where the clothes that are not-quite-dirty but not-exactly-clean have piled up into a monstrous heap that has sprouted arms and legs and I’m pretty sure is responsible for the mysterious disappearance of our cat.

And then there’s my inability to ever (Ever!) remove my socks. (I know what you’re visualizing right now. Stop it.) I can’t help it. I need them. My wife married me, socks and all, and it’s too late now to ask me to change. My socks. (Riotous laughter.)

But I admit that I probably am to blame for the thing that bothers my wife the most. Namely, my irresistable compulsion to make fun of her while she’s doing yoga. I should probably mention that my compulsion also involves lying down on the couch with a bag of potato chips and giving play-by-play color commentary.

“Whoa! You’ll feel that one tomorrow!”

“Those unitards really ride up on you, huh?”

“Wow, that’s not a flattering position!”

“That one should be illegal!”

“Smile for the camera!”

It’s really nothing personal against my wife. I’d pretty much make fun of anyone I caught rolling around on a rubber mat in a Spandex suit in the middle of my living room. Especially if that person was Anna Nicole Smith.

Now, I understand that everyone has his methods of relaxation. What I don’t get is why my wife’s method has to involve a video tape featuring Captain Banana Pants giving yoga instructions in nothing but a pair of immodest purple tights.

“Begin,” says the Captain, “by lifting both legs over your head, like this, and placing your right elbow into your left ear, like this. Good. Now, yank your own head back by the hair and firmly insert a finger into each of your nostrils. Advanced students may opt to insert the entire fist. This position is called Beautiful Flower Drinking Rainwater.

“Now, point two fingers directly at your eyes. Slowly bring your fingers in towards your face. At the last minute, raise your left hand and hold it in front of your nose, thereby blocking your fingers from poking you in the eyes. This is called the Nyuck Nyuck position.

“Lowering yourself to the ground, slowly coil your body into the Cobra position, unhinge your jaw, and swallow your own leg up to the knee cap. And remember, folks – relax! That’s what this is about, after all!”

As the Captain speaks, his students writhe around on the floor, contorting themselves into positions normally reserved for people being eaten by a dinosaur. Meanwhile, my wife is managing to make the whole painful process look easy, gracefully shifting her body from the Spitting Camel into the Surprised Chipmunk with the greatest of ease.

Nobody enjoys my wife’s yoga sessions more than the dog, who always manages to squeeze in a round of his favorite game, King of the Mountain, on my wife’s head. One minute, I’m watching my wife stretch out on the floor. The next thing I know, our little Jack Russel is perched on the back of her head with a look that says, “Look what a good dog I am!”

“Mmmph!” my wife yells.

“What?” I say.

“Mmmmmmph!!!!” she yells.

“I can’t understand you, there’s a dog on your head,” I explain.

And then we laugh. Well, I laugh.

I can usually lure the dog off my wife’s head by waving one of my potato chips around in the air for a few minutes. I’d get off the couch and help, but I don’t want to get my socks dirty.

Another hazard of my wife’s yoga is our cats’ drive-by rubbings. The cats, who have been lying in one spot giving themselves a bath since 1998, decide that now is the time to show how much they love my wife by running up and flopping all over her feet. Which is OK if she’s standing up straight, but a little precarious if she’s in the middle of a One-handed Inverted Moose, for example.

I think the most unsettling thing about her yoga has got to be the breathing exercises, which involve the kind gutteral snorts and phlegmy growls one might expect to hear from a congested grizzly bear. The first time I heard it, I thought an angry rhinocerous had somehow meandered its way into our living room. I ran in from the kitchen with a flyswater and a frying pan, ready for battle, to find my wife in a leotard with her leg wrapped around her neck three times, a cat stuck to her shin, and our dog perched on her forehead.

Who said that yoga wasn’t a spectator sport?