At the risk of sounding like pure, pure assholio-ness, I have to say that I had a completely strangé (yes, accent on the “e”) yoga class today.
I paid to be a yoga teacher’s therapist.
You read that right. And I did. If you’re looking for the bright side, you could say that my yoga for the day was providing an (unintended) open ear for a teacher who was obviously in need of verbal and emotional release. But I have to be honest and say I feel abused.
The Yoga Class That Isn’t a Class:
- 5% asana, 95% dialogue.
- Said dialogue is of the verbal diarrhea, personal trauma, my life sucks, my relationship is in a shambles, wahhhh nature.
- I should call the popo because you just R’d my ears and my time.
- This is the ONE place where it’s okay to bring my shit along with me in hopes that it will dissolve into my mat. Call me an asshole, but I don’t have enough room for your shit. Isn’t that why you take classes, too?
- When three people leave — one slamming the door behind her in a huff, uhhh, there’s a PROBLEM.
- I don’t wanna talk about my feeeeelings. And I don’t want to hear the dregs and depths of yours. We only have 90 minutes, you know.
- Your strange physical ailments are not proper class inspiration. I need you to speak Sanskrit to me.
- For the love of Patanjali and everyone else on the 405, work me out, don’t talk me out. Nobody needs to be exposed to my frequent bouts of road rage. Help those little drivers. They need you.
- I understand that YOU are not MY therapist. This should be a two-way street.
But I was polite. And understanding. I nodded and looked sympathetic. For an hour and a half.
Any bulldog bill collectors out there? I’m due money for yoga therapy services rendered.
artwork credit: Charles Schultz, with a little help from YIFY