Namaste Bitches

There is always that person at yoga who out yogas everyone else in the room and you can pick them out before the first om’s are even uttered. The outfit is usually a dead giveaway along with the strong scent of forest herbs and unwashed pits, the ones who never really follow the the flow of the class and like to do their own practice on the periphery of what everyone else is doing, just to be super yogi and show off. They out om and out breathe you so much that you can’t focus on your own downward dog let alone hear what the teacher says. Shirt is off at the earliest possible opportunity, down to just the most unforgiving trousers possible, leaving nothing to the imagination. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are all walks of life in such things as yoga and I appreciate each one of them and their personal journey but the overstepping of the mat came when the out yoga-erer started commenting on my postures from between his legs or from his demented pretzel pose.

Yoga

 

“Square your hips”

“Don’t bend your knees”

“Roll your shoulders back and down”

 

 

I am a regular at this class and I certainly ain’t no expert but I know what I am doing, with little adjustments from the teacher here and there of which he was receiving too, much to his disdain, so I glanced at him once sharply then pretended not to hear him and continued making shapes to my best ability, feeling the namaste vibes slip right out of my head and morph into annoyance.

As we moved from a head stand to child’s pose the yoga ‘pro’ let out a huge, loud sigh from his mouth hole and butt hole in one swift release. I stifled a laugh and in the process it turned into a sneeze (if you know me then you know that it’s probably the worst thing to let out in such a calm environment) but the patchouli wizard had started it and soon the rest of the class were all stuffing laughs back into their throats. Including the teacher who couldn’t help herself and giggled like a schoolgirl.

He then sat up, pulled a wooden pin from his receding hairline ponytail and held it in prayer muttering something under his breath as the class carried on and on…. He then felt like joining the practice once again for savasana, clutching that hair pin tight, running a rollerball of frankincense and myrrh along his wrists, stinking out the place, breathing in and out so loudly that I didn’t even know if I was breathing or not. It was HIS class and HE will do whatever HE wants. GOT IT?

 

Just chill vibes man…. no need to be a yoga douche. Right?

Namaste bitches

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