I’ve been doing a lot of yoga lately. I really like yoga, there are so, so many benefits to practicing yoga and I can’t begin to explain how fucking sick I am of hearing about all of them.
My biggest complaint about practicing yoga is that you have to do it with other people, and when you don’t have the luxury and/or lifestyle that allows you to attend a 10 a.m. class on Tuesday, you’re usually doing it with a lot of other people. Lots of people means lots of sweat, and when some of those crazy housewives get super into the downward dog to forward lunge to warrior pose flow … well … you’re fucked, and by that I mean covered in fluid that is not your own. That is never a good look (or feel) and frankly if I wanted to be covered in other people’s sweat I would get paid to participate in a gang bang, and that’s not an option I’m close to considering.
My second issue, closely related to the first, is the environment. Thank goodness yoga practice is a place to be alone with yourself, because everyone else around you is a huge asshole. It’s a rookie mistake to think people in yoga studios are warm and welcoming people. That’s all an illusion resulting from a tragic confluence of two factors: hippies and Gandhi. Make no mistake, do not approach anyone unless you have mastered at least two inversions and are interested in beginning teacher training. So, on your way into the studio pick up two blocks, a strap, and a bad attitude–ready, go. Fortunately, part of my yoga practice is being an even bigger asshole than normal; as if I need practice.
The third issue has to do with some of the poses.
Happy Baby and/or Dead Bug:
Are these different poses or the same pose? If they are different, how? If they aren’t, why the two names? Actually, who gives a shit about all that, the point is that this/these is/are just plain stupid, kind of like babies and bugs sometimes. I guess if someone could rationally explain to me the benefits of being on my back and fondling my toes, I might buy into it but I haven’t heard anything convincing yet, and, I’ll tell you what, if your camel is going to toe, it’s going to do it during this pose. Thankfully the instructor is about the only one who could appreciate your camel toe from this position, but–like a horrible tattoo–you know it’s there and that’s enough.
Speaking of camels … I like camels, and can see how my boobs lend themselves to making me look like one in this pose, but something about it makes me violently nauseous. Just the other day, after going for weeks and finally gathering enough street cred to approach the instructor, I asked what the problem was. Her answer, in a camel-shaped nut shell, was that my shitty weak neck and shitty underdeveloped abs weren’t able to hold the pose, so I was cutting off circulation to my shitty head. It was very constructive.
The last issue about which I will bitch today (at least through this blog) is the inevitable Johnny Jackass who attends class with you and does nothing but push-ups during downward dog and then lies in shavasana for the rest of the class. (For those of you not enough of a dick to practice yoga, shavasana means “corpse pose” so you can get how strenuous it must be in-between his push-up reps.) Strangely enough, I’ve met a few people who subscribe to the “don’t bother with cardio” philosophy and, perhaps not strangely enough, they’re all fat. Well, Johnny Jerk-off Your Neighbor is no exception and frankly I think he’s only in it for the camel watching.
As a closing note, I would seriously debate the benefits of massaging the ascending and descending colon when you have a hangover, but I guess that isn’t yoga’s fault.