Dear Bikram Acolyte,
C’mon man. What is your objective here? There are 13 of us packed into this sweaty bitch, and you are making twelve-thirteenths of the group feel weird and annoyed. Let me also remind you, in case through your yogic meditative practice you have transported your consciousness to a higher plane of existence and have completely untethered yourself from the physical realm and have forgotten where you are, this is the public sauna at the community center. I fully believe in the credo ‘Your sauna, your rules.’ But my friend, this ain’t your sauna…
To be clear, there is nothing wrong with yoga. Yoga is fantastic, and there is a place for it. It’s called a yoga class, at a place known as a yoga studio. But not in this hot meat locker. Sit your ass down. Breathe, if you must. But be quiet, and don’t turn this community sweat session into your own little vinyasa exhibition.
It appears that you’re going to ignore the advice and consternation I’m aggressively attempting to transmit to you telepathically. The energetic wavelengths of my signal must be getting jammed by all this hot, meaty air. Or maybe I was just wrong about you. I thought you might actually be on my psychic wavelength, being enlightened and all, but it appears I’ve overestimated your talents. Well okay then, I’ll instead awkwardly stare and criticize your technique…
Wow, what a nice forward fold you have there, touching your toes with ease. With ease! Terrifically impressive. Oh damn son, you can even put your entire palms under your feet?! Very flexible… I do, however, feel for the poor soul sitting directly behind you who is currently receiving an exquisite view of your asshole as you bend so, so deep.
Next move, whoa! Out of concern I must say, that Malasana squat you’re doing is dangerously deep. Please do not prolapse your rectum onto the floor of this schvitz. That would seriously alter the vibe in here.
No, no! Upward dog?! Please sir, stopping fucking the bench, that is public property!
Quite frankly, I don’t even care if you fuck the bench. Fuck the bench, make my day. I’ll sit on the exact spot where wood and wood united. I ain’t scared of a lil fuckin’. But I need answers. I just need to know, do you do it for attention? Do you enjoy the eyes of strangers upon you as they make frequent glances out of morbid curiosity? Are you a psychopath reveling in my and surely at least a few others’ annoyance at your antics? Are you just that committed to your yoga practice? Do you live the mantra ‘Yoga is life’ and feel the need to incorporate it in every possible situation? Is your goal to drive a neurotic stranger to the desperate point of blogging about your escapades? Do you simply not give a shit and feel comfortable with yourself to the point of fearing no one else’s judgment? If so, I oddly must respect you, because I am far from feeling like that myself.
Currently answerless, I sit here sweaty and conflicted. Maybe I can’t stand you, and you horribly annoy me. Maybe I admire you and on some subconscious level, want to be you. Maybe a bit of both. My true feelings, I shall never reveal. Regardless, before I hop outta this human crockpot, how about the 13 of us do a couple rounds of cyclic Om chanting to unblock our crown chakras?
With Ire and Longing,