I love yoga.
Not really. I wish I loved yoga.
You could call what I do “yoger,” because I feel that people see it and identify it as some subgenre of yoga, then second guess themselves, go “errr,” and scurry on.
I try really hard to love yoga because I generally think that people who do it proficiently are the coolest. It’s like they’re all part of a small but inclusive club for skinny, empathetic, non-judgmental hippies who are all beautiful when they sweat. I feel that they hold small parties where everyone brings their own home brewed herbal tea and a gift of incense for the host. They all, obviously, live in Brooklyn.
There’s a wonderful organization called Yoga to the People, and they enable me to oogle these accepting yogaists for free. I try to get to class early, so that I can pick a nice viewing spot in the back of the room, and then completely psych myself out. I assume that everyone in the class is better at yoga than me, whoever they are, whatever they’re wearing. Even if I hear someone say, “Ooo, this is my first time!” (then everyone except me comes forward with a welcome vat of herbal tea and bouquets of incense), I think, “Great, I’ve got the Sandra Dee of yoga here to show me up.”
4 reasons I know you’re better at yoga than me (even though class hasn’t even started yet)
1) Having a cool, intricate tattoo on your back.
I know that you have given yourself this intricate back tattoo, because being good at yoga makes you a natural artist, as well as impossibly flexible. I also know that you gave yourself this tattoo with your eyes closed, surrounded by candles, meditative music, and monks, who all looked on and nodded sagely.
2) Being a muscular man without a shirt on.
I know that five minutes ago, you were actually holding the Earth on your shoulders, because you look exactly like the 7th Google Image result for “Atlas.”
3) Doing an insanely flexible pose before class has even started (note: I count a bridge as an insanely flexible pose).
I know that right before you came here, you were in upstate New York, at a quaint county fair, participating in a Pretzel Lookalike Contest. It is the lesser known booth right next to the Pretzel Eating Contest tables. You obviously won, and stood atop a three-tier Olympic medal stand, contentedly contorted into a perfect pretzel shape.
Second and third place had been propped up on the second and third place tiers, had bones sticking out of them from trying to bend their limbs at right angles, and were dead.
4) Being a fat man.
I know that at any moment you’ll begin to glow and then levitate. Because you’re Buddha.