Dre and I are still going to yoga. We always at least make it to one Ashtanga primary series a week, and then usually another vinyasa class on top of that. It’s going pretty well and feels like a good way to work my muscles.

A few years ago I tried working out in a gym with weights, and the result was that my arms got fucking HUGE. And it wasn’t really attractive to me. Then I tried running stairs for six months last year. The result was that my ass got fucking HUGE from the glute muscle mass. My goal was to have my jeans fit better, not worse. Realistically, the issue is that I have a stocky, muscular body that’s awfully soft, but when given a chance turns into a little bulky hulk. Hence, yoga is a great choice because it stretches those bulky muscles out, and I can use all the lengthening I can get.

Andreas and I are perfectly opposite in our yoga practices: I’m the amazing gumby girl, and I can fold in half, and twist in two without blinking. Andreas, meanwhile grunts as he tries to reach his toes, but is the master of strength. While I quiver in fear over the idea of (gulp) putting any weight on my hands, he’s hanging out for 20 breaths at a time, happily heels over head. Between the two of us, we’re one decent yogi. Wonder twin deficiencies — unite!

The weirdest aspect for me about yoga is that I’m blind when I practice. I don’t wear my glasses or contacts and this weird thing happens: when I can’t see anybody, I assume nobody can see me. Our yoga teachers probably think I’m weird little woman, because my face is always totally vacant and I can never tell when they’re looking at me so I don’t ever give them any sort of cues that I’m listening. Whatever: it actually helps me sort of turn the focus internally when I can’t even see my mat.