“Listen, y’all. I understand that this is probably all my fault. I should never have written a blog post about how much I love yoga. I was pretty much asking the universe to set me straight. And now, it looks like the universe has.
I know Monday nights are usually pretty busy around here, but seriously, give me a break — this isn’t a telephone booth in 1958.
You there: lady in the $260 spandex get-up. Remember in pre-school and kindergarten, when we all had to line up our nap mats against the wall in a neat and orderly fashion? You do? Could you please explain to the rest of the class, then, why you see fit to place your yoga mat at a caddywhompus angle that totally destroys the organization of the entire room?
And you, yogi hipster dudes in the corner: I’ve never really seen you here before, but I’m already terrified. I don’t know if they were having a sale on ‘Yoga Guy’ Halloween costumes at Spencer’s or what, but it looks like you’ve both really perfected the whole no-one-understands-my-newfound-Eastern-mysticism-not-even-my-wealthy-Presbyterian-parents look. The dread locks and Ganesh ringer tee are a special touch.
Also, I get the feeling you’ve been relying on essential oils lately more than, you know, a daily hygiene routine, and that’s cool. I can’t wait until it starts to heat up in here and I can experience the full effect that the jasmine essence produces when it unites with armpit stank. And look! You’re taking your shirts off — we’re already on our way!
I see that, while the rest of us are sitting quietly cross-legged on our mats, you guys are really working it out. Seeing you bust out the standing split for no reason is really inspiring me, but I’m not overly impressed. Why don’t you let all of us know when you’ve figured out how to thread your feet through the spacers in your ears? Then I’ll really be paying attention.
Substitute Instructor? Can I talk to you for a second? I know you just said that magical things are happening in our bodies right now. And I — I heard you use temperature of the room as an example. In fact, I’m pretty sure you were expressing your gleeful amazement that we’d managed to heat up the room with nothing more than the energy from our bodies. I guess that would be cool if we were in a 7th grade science class, but it’s August in Florida, and I’m stuck in this room with 24 scantily-clad strangers, and my towel is soaked, and it’s really starting to smell like granola bar breath in here, and —
Wait! Did you hear that? What’s that noise? Oh never mind, it’s just the yogi hipsters practicing their ujjayi breath. For a second I thought a Florida black bear was in here mating with a screech owl. Or a Velociraptor, if you’re listening to this lady across from me exhale with her mouth wide open.
Here’s the thing, kids: I don’t consider myself a yoga expert by any means, and I’m certainly not here to judge anyone’s posture or flexibility or anything. I just don’t want to smell you, and I don’t want to hear you, and I don’t want to watch you pretend like you’re at the circus — especially if you’re not wearing a shirt.
Unfortunately, we’ve been stuck in here for 20 minutes past the time that the class was supposed to end. I’m pretty sure my husband’s already started heating up a frozen pizza and is wondering where I am. I’m hungry, and my arms are shaky, and Substitute Instructor, I kind of can’t believe you just asked all of us to do something with our sphincters. (I tuned you out, and I won’t be following along — so sorry.)
So if you’ll all excuse me, I need to be going. I don’t think I’ve ever left a yoga class this much angrier than I was when I arrived, and I really hope it never happens again. To you five or six relatively normal people I see every week, I’m looking forward to setting my mat down next to yours next Monday. To everyone else, I’m begging: keep your shirts on, take more showers, learn to exhale without moaning, and never, ever do anything with your sphincters in public unless it’s solely your choice.
Namaste, bitches — I’ve got a decent-smelling husband and an Amy’s Margherita Pizza waiting for me at home.”