September 20, 2013
I am SO pissed after going to yoga this morning. (By the way, I’m not making up any of this.) First, there’s a substitute teacher — named Petal or Zephyr or Seafoam or something like that — who asks everyone as they enter if they have any physical limitations that she should be aware of. I tell her no, and even though I’m one of only 3 people in there under age 65, she returns to me twice to ask if I’m sure there’s no problems with me.
I’m directly in front of her when class starts, and she eyes me during the early stretches and says, “You’re air energy, aren’t you? You’re very airy and all over the place.” Since all I’ve done is walk into class and answer a few questions, I’m perplexed and a little put off by this. I’m “airy”? WTF is that supposed to mean?
The class (a BEGINNER class) continues, and she keeps asking, “Who hasn’t done [name of obscure pose, e.g., Mangled Pelican 1]?” Every time, I’m the only one who raises my hand, and every time, she frowns and says pointedly, “Really? You haven’t?” and makes a note of it on her class list.
Then, even though there are numerous signs telling people to turn off their cell phones, 15 minutes into class, some woman’s phone starts ringing, and her ring tone is the loud angry barking dog! And she doesn’t turn it off! She answers it and yells, “NO! I’m in yoga class! NO! I told you not to call now! I’m in class! NO! I can’t now! Let’s talk later! OK, talk to you later! NO! My class is NOW! OK, BYE!” Five minutes go by, and IT STARTS BARKING AGAIN. Only then does she turn it off.
Class progresses, but I can’t really get into a zen place because every 5 minutes, as the instructor walks around, she’ll leans down next to my ear with a distracting and annoying comments, like, “How are we doing here?” “Remember to breathe now,” “May I assist you to get that pose right?” and “You just need to let go of that tension!”
Finally we lie on our backs to start meditation. The guy in front of me quickly reaches a higher plane of relaxation, and lets loose a series of dense, horrible clouds of flatulence that sear the eyes, nostrils and lungs of everyone in the entire building.
As the farting subsides, the teacher, who’s still walking the perimeter, gently places a soft, glasses-case-sized beanbag over my closed eyes. She actually has good intentions, but doesn’t realize there’s a big tear in it, and all the little birdseedlike stuffins start to pour out onto my eyes and face. I sit up suddenly and throw off the beanbag, but the pile of seeds already on me then flow down into my shirt, through my sports bra, down the waistband of my yoga pants, and into my underwear. I am sweaty, so the seeds stick like glue to my skin.
Class ends, and as I’m leaving the room, the instructor tells me she thinks I have a lot of potential if I keep practicing, and to have a terrific day.
I am itchy, uncomfortable, stressed, angry and think about murder all the way home. Nama-freakin’-ste.