I’ve recently enrolled at a Yoga studio in an effort to strengthen my core and regain some muscle tone. If you’re a long time reader, you’ll recall that I’m no virgin to Yoga. You may remember the infamous session where I was asked repeatedly if I was pregnant, then again if I had already had the baby and then AGAIN why was I wearing maternity pants. Ah, good times.
My inspiring friend Krista introduced me to the practice years ago while I was trying to quit smoking and I found myself immediately hooked. I really do enjoy the mental and physical discipline and the challenges that come with the deep meditation.
Lately, however, I’m discovering my biggest challenges are the other douchebags in each session with me.
Each class I attend seems to produce another toolbag even more annoying and ridiculous than the last . There’s Mona. I tell ya, she didn’t get her name shooting marbles. Every single flippin’ pose was coupled with a god-awful sigh or eerie moan. For the first ten minutes I thought she was going to either pass out or throw up. For the last ten, I thought I was either going to pass out or throw up. STFU, Mona.
I like my instructor, although it’s a fine line between spiritual awareness and douchebaggery, in my book. She borders on the latter, but only just. I think she truly believes in what she preaches, which makes it less annoying, but still, I couldn’t help but cringe when she drew us into our “intention circle”. This was new to me. At the end of our last class, she gathered us together to sip on peppermint water and share our “intentions” of that days class. Oh, shit.
As she went around the circle I heard flexibility, balance, forgiveness and stability, to name a few. This was fine, of course, but I didn’t really feel that I should have to share my “intention” with a group of strangers. Isn’t it enough that I showed up and paid the $18? I also thought I exercised great restraint when I did not pick up the zen/water/rock cement garden thing and beat Mona to a bloody pulp with it. So, of course, to better seal the deal on what a majestic asshole I am, I replied “not to fart” when it came turn to divulge my intention.
No one laughed which made me even more glad that I said it.
She then went on to extol the virtues of “hot yoga”. I have no desire to bend myself into unnatural positions in a room full of strangers combined with a soaring temperature of around 105 degrees. No thank you. If I’m going to do that I’ll make sure that I’m in Cancun and I just wandered blind-drunk into the men’s sauna like last time. Funny, my reluctance only seemed to encourage her.
Yoga teacher: You’d love it! It’s hard work, but I bet you’d like it.
Me: I bet I wouldn’t. This is fine for me, thanks.
Yoga teacher: You have resistance.
Me: Not really. I have what you would call “no interest”.
Yoga teacher: Well, I had resistance, at first. But after fighting and fighting, I just let myself go and succumb to it’s power and it was the most wonderful feeling.
Me: Yeah, well, hostages fall in love with their captors, lady, so there’s that.
There’s a married couple that attends as well. Give me a very large break. The day Johnny says he’d like to accompany me to my Yoga class will be the same day that I get Dale Earnhardt Jr’s number “88” tattooed in tri-color flames above my boobs. The gentleman wears socks and sandals and the Mrs. seems to get somewhat *weepy* during our practice. Instead of finding my inner peace I find myself desperately wanting to smother them both with their fucking matching yoga mats.
So instead of getting into the moment and finding my center and relaxing, I’m constantly thinking about taking a chainsaw to one or more of my fellow students.
This is not Zen. This is not how I’m supposed to feel about my inner self and my essence, is it? Can I not achieve autonomy and spiritual lightness of being because of my own self-doubt and immaturity?
Is my essence an asshole? Oh, good grief, I think it might be.