Category Archives: Yogi thoughts

May7

enlighten this

Posted on May 7, 2016 by glasshill

Me. Except change “ladies” to “Bitches”

Until I can have an exceptionally hot Latino man behind me continually squeezing and lifting my ass I’m going to have to settle for my “uplifting” yoga pants and blue jeans.

Statement. By me. Today.

For the record, I was wearing just regular, not “firmly cupping my ass and lifting it six inches from my thighs, super compression” yoga pants that take 20minutes to pull over my ass, but I was talking about the “ass sculpting, tummy flattening” jeans I was planning on wearing on my hot date that night (coming soon, maybe, depending: How to Date a Yoga Teacher).

Yeah, I continue as the top contender for Most Goddamned Enlightened Yoga Teacher, like ever.

I know, I know…. Yoga teachers are somehow supposed to be above this sort of thinking, “Levitating in Lotus Pose” kind of above it, but hey, some of us (#me #allthetime) are still rolling about in the lovely muck and mud down here at the bottom of the pond and haven’t managed to bloom into the Freaking Floating Lotus Flower that we’re supposed to be.

I try, really I do. Well, more accurately, I used to try. I tried for a long time to be the type person that I thought you thought, or society in general thought, or the person I wanted to impress thought I should be. Of course, this was what I thought they thought I should be. Just writing that sentence was exhausting, and you probably had to read it more than once.

So sorry folks, but I just don’t have time for that kind of bullshit anymore.

So last month, I’m on the beach, yeah, go ahead hate me a little, talking to a fabulous young male yoga teacher. He is everything you, okay I, imagine a stereotypical male yoga teacher would be, he has long pretty blonde hair, a adorably scruffy bit of beard, mala beads on his wrists and around his neck, cute yoga tattoos and spends most of his time shirtless and in handstand, and never seems to lose mala beads, or look anything other than hopelessly young and hot. So, yeah, we’re chatting, about yoga, because that is about the only thing we have in common – things I am not, young, hot, in control of my mala beads, and more thankfully, bearded – and I mention this blog – Zen Bitch, and he says in the sweetest most adorable way, “Well, if you worked at it, you could start calling it Zen Sweet”.

Oh my god, aren’t you the cutest thing ever? Zen Sweet? I have been called many things in my life, but “sweet” doesn’t make the top 20… or so. I opened my mouth, paused and closed it, I did this a couple more times, but the only things that wanted to come out of it were things that would go along with the Zen Bitch nom de plume, and we were having such a nice little moment on the beach I didn’t want to spoil it, so I did what I do in these situations, smiled and crinkled my eyes in what I hoped was a merry and cheerful way and changed the subject to just how good he was at handstands.

Other somewhat Unenlightened thoughts I may or may not have had:

How does my ass look in these pants?
How does my ass look in down dog in these pants?
How much of my ass is showing in down dog in these pants (aka – how see through are these pants)?
Is anybody noticing how my ass looks in these yoga pants?
Why the hell isn’t anyone checking me out?
I am totally above all this checking out in yoga class, it never crosses my mind.
Wow, shirtless guy in handstand!
Dammit! I’m wearing the same pants as she is.
The pants look better on her.
I need to go home and change, like right now.
Don’t fart. Please don’t fart. Dammit.
Pretend it was the guy beside you, glance over, so everyone knows it wasn’t you.
Why did I have the beans lunch?
How do I look in this pose?
How does my hair look in this pose?
What the hell is my hair doing in this pose?
What exactly is going on with my hair period?
This sports bra makes me look like a teenage boy. No really, I’ve been mistaken for one.
I should put this pose on Instagram because I am totally rocking it.
I bet Yoga Girl looks gorgeous in this pose.
I wonder if I’ll get a lot of “Likes” for this pose?
I bet Yoga Girl has 5 billion likes already.
Forget Instagram.
This pose would look better in different pants.
What is that on the back of my legs? Oh, wait it’s my ass. I want to die now.
Are we inhaling now? Why the hell are we inhaling?
I should not have looked in the mirror. Look down for heavens sake!
Lower? Are you kidding me?!
I am totally wearing the wrong malas.
Is it me, or does the little tassle on mala beads make you just a little bit crazy?
What does a person have to do to get a 1/2 pigeon assist here folks? Seriously!
If he/she can do it, then I sure as hell can, and I’ll be much lower, and more spiritual about it.
Where exactly is that Chakra? Because I think I’m missing at least one.
Are OHMing? Oh God! Okay, wait for someone else to start, and for the love of Pete do not be the last one making sound.
Can anybody hear me? I think I’m flat, or maybe I’m just super connected spiritually, yeah, I bet that’s it.
Did anybody see that? No really… anybody?
Why isn’t anyone else dying in here?
I am sweating 10x more than any normal person does. There is something seriously wrong with my sweat glands.
Seriously, can we all just savasana now?

Apr14

don’t you dare settle

Posted on April 14, 2016 by glasshill

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And you do. Settle that is. I am freakin’ fabulous at settling, I could write a book on settling, those commercials about the ‘settlers’? I was the inspiration for them (I may or may not have a slightly elevated opinion of my own influence, but you get the idea), because you know what’s scary? Change is scary, it is fucking terrifying. Staying and settling for something that is less than we deserve, settling for a version of ourselves is easier than pushing for what we are capable of.

Settling.
Don’t do it. Don’t you DARE.

A student was trying to decide if she should buy a pair of yoga pants and said “I don’t know, I’m getting divorced and I need to lose weight.”

We talked.

She decided she wanted the pants and that cupcakes were awesome as a food group, and also that she was freaking fabulous just the was she was. Dammit. And she is, that was always a given.

Here’s the thing. You are already freaking awesome, you are already absolutely gorgeous, you are already utterly fabulous. You were BORN awesome, gorgeous and fabulous. Somewhere along the line the world, your family, your friends, TV, media, The Donald fucking Trump have told you otherwise.

THIS IS BULLSHIT. Do not settle for this bullshit. Settling, while it seems the path of least resistance initially, will come back and bite you in the ass, HARD, one day.

When someone tears you down it is a reflection of their own inner demons that they are trying to quiet by projecting on you. Do NOT listen to them. DO NOT give them one goddamn second of your consideration.

Do you know what makes you beautiful, sexy, fabulous, awesome? Here’s a clue, it’s not your fucking pant, bra, or dress size, or the colour of your hair, skin, or eyes, it’s not the labels you’ve been given about yourself. It abso-fucking-lutely is not your appearance.

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Roald Dahl has this shit figured out decades ago. The quote is from his book The Twits.

What he said. Sunbeams people, mother-fucking sunbeams, out of your face, out of your ass. That’s what you’ve got when you think good thoughts. Kindness is the new black, Kindness, Compassion, Confidence, are what make you beautiful. And it really makes absolutely zero difference what your pant size is, if you’ve got a big nose (got that), crooked teeth (ditto), what makes you sexy, fabulous, awesome, beautiful comes from inside you.

What you do with your external appearance is up to you. Like the look of eyelash extensions, then GET SOME! Want a different hair colour, texture, style, then CHANGE IT. Like those yoga pants? BUY THEM. But don’t do these things to because they will make you beautiful, they will not affect that, but if they work as an expression of yourself, as a way to express the beauty you already have, then damn the torpedoes and GO FOR IT. Don’t do anything to your appearance, to your life to try and please some external force, a person, an idea, a set of labels that society is trying to hang around your neck to define you and pigeon hole you by. This will make you miserable and you will lose your sunbeams.

Fuck all of that, absolutely all of it. Let that shit go.

“You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.”

― Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon

So put it down. Look at yourself, where are you settling? Why are you doing that? Then do the scary thing, the terrifying thing and change it.

“You are what you settle for.” Do not settle for anything less than your innate gorgeous, awesome, beautiful and sexy self.

Mar28

how to yoga

Posted on March 28, 2016 by glasshill

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Yesterday a friend said to me she would come back to yoga, but couldn’t because she had gained some weight.

Thank gawd for people with some self insight!

Because that’s how we yogis roll. The other day a woman tried to pass as a size 2 so she could take one of my classes. She was very clearly a size 4, and had less than an one inch thigh gap. The nerve of some people. I sent her on her way and reminded her, quietly firmly, that yoga is ONLY for willowy tall women with long flowing hair, big boobs (that do not need any form of support other than a skin tight Lululemon top), rock hard abs, and tasteful Ohm tattoos on their perfectly pedicured feet. Also, if you show up in an outfit that cost less than $400 you’ll either have to leave, or buy a new (size 00/xs – size2/xl) more yoga appropriate outfit from our retail racks.

everyone has to have one

Oh, and if you can’t already DO every pose perfectly, do not even drive by the studio, ain’t nobody got time for students who are still actually learning how to do yoga. Honestly I don’t know what people are thinking.

If you are anything above a size 2, large breasted 20 something who can already do absolutely every yoga pose pose perfectly, then go get yourself a dvd and practice yoga by yourself, preferably in a private room where no one can see you and be permanently scarred by your feeble attempts at yoga.

Also, if you

eat meat
eat gluten
consume dairy
have not been on a juice fast in the last 24hours
have body fat or a BMI over 12
do not own a juicer
do not make your own kombucha
do not have kale snacks in your Lulu bag
remember what refined sugar tastes like
use anything but essential oils for health care
do not have a profound connection with your chakras
are wearing anything other than Tom’s shoes on your feet
can’t fluently speak, read and communicate in Sanskrit
cannot already wrap both ankles around your neck
engage in any behaviour that is unyogi like

Then don’t even think about coming to my class, and for Ohm’s sake, pull yourself together and get ON it will you?

Taken on Friday. This group was one of my favourite groups ever to teach. They are The Dupage Derby Dames, a kick butt roller derby team. Okay, so I might have bent a few rules by letting them practice yoga because I’m pretty certain the pizza they were going for after class broke just about every food consumption rule, and while there were plenty of tattoos, there wasn’t a single Ohm, also there was zero Lulu outfits in the room.

So why do we do this to ourselves?

I can’t do yoga because

I’m not flexible
I’m not in shape
I have nothing to wear
I don’t know any poses
I don’t know Sanskrit
I can’t stand to look at my ass/boobs/arms/thighs/shoulders/belly because they are not absolutely fucking perfect, and I’m sure as hell not stepping onto a yoga mat until they are

Disclaimer: Just in case you think, well, easy for HER to say, she already has great body/practice/kombucha habit. Yeah, about that. Okay, I do have a kombucha habit, but I also eat meat, gluten, dairy, love sugar, have not done a juice cleanse or wear Lululemon exclusively. I also have all that body image self talk – my ass is too jiggly, my belly has loose skin and stretch marks, my boobs, gawd, my boobs are a sad, pathetic disgrace that I keep well hidden and carefully camouflaged. Also, my hair is a frizzy mess, my skin wrinkly, and I have bags under my eyes that you could store snacks in – seriously. And I still manage to practice yoga.

Here’s the thing about yoga, to paraphrase Brian Kest, yoga doesn’t give one single fuck about anything I have mentioned here, or anything else you have rattling around in your brain as reasons why you can’t do yoga.

Yoga doesn’t care what your hair looks like.
Yoga doesn’t care if you wear Lululemon or Spiritual Gangster.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are vegetarian, if you eat meat or know what Kombucha is.
Yoga doesn’t care when the last time you practiced was—yesterday, six months ago, never.
Yoga doesn’t care what kind of mat you have, brand new or eating away at itself.
Yoga doesn’t care if you show up cranky or exhausted.
Yoga doesn’t care what religion you believe in.
Yoga doesn’t care what color your skin is or what gender you choose to love.
Yoga doesn’t care if you wear mala beads.
Yoga doesn’t care what the tag on the back of your pants says.
Yoga doesn’t care if you don’t know what yoga means.
Yoga doesn’t care how much money you have, what house you live in, what car you drive.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are flexible.
Yoga doesn’t care if you fall over in Trikonasana.
Yoga doesn’t care if you fart during practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you ever make it into head stand.
Yoga doesn’t care if you feel uncomfortable saying Namaste and Om.
Yoga doesn’t care if you drink super food smoothies or drink coconut water.
Yoga doesn’t care if choose the back corner or the front row of the room to practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you stay to meditate.
Yoga doesn’t care if you can put your leg behind your head, or lick your own ass.
Yoga doesn’t care if you know what Ujjayi breath is.
Yoga doesn’t care if you smoke cigarettes, and drink whisky.
Yoga doesn’t care if you need to leave class halfway through because you’re dehydrated and need to get water.
Yoga doesn’t care if you have a man bun.
Yoga doesn’t care if your monkey mind takes over.
Yoga doesn’t care how old you are, the color of your hair doesn’t affect your practice.
Yoga doesn’t care if you juice or cleanse.
Yoga doesn’t care if you shake the entire 60 minutes.
Yoga doesn’t care if you only feel comfortable doing yoga in Mexico.
Yoga doesn’t care if you spend the entire class in child’s pose.
Yoga doesn’t care what political party you vote for.
Yoga doesn’t care if you are single or divorced.
Yoga doesn’t care if you like Rumi.
Yoga doesn’t care if you like your teacher.
Yoga doesn’t care if you complete a 30 day challenge.
Yoga doesn’t care what version of wheel you go up into.
Yoga doesn’t care if you shop at whole foods.
Yoga doesn’t care if you remember to shave your armpits.

So Get the fuck Over it People. You don’t have to come to my class, or even practice the type of yoga I teach, but I will not accept any of the above excuse as reasons why you can’t do yoga.

Mar21

bejesus. really, that’s a thing

Posted on March 21, 2016 by glasshill

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Go to a movie she said, get yourself out of this funk she said. Better than my plan of smashing possibly valuable antique china against the garage door, and throwing everything into garbage bags and slinking off to go live a quiet hermit like existence and never speaking to anyone ever again, plan. Ever again, except people I like, except for Fezzik, because he’s the best, except my students and coworkers. Okay, never again speaking to people who annoy the bejesus* outta me.

see, I didn’t make it up

*Bejesus, is a lesser known, but fairly important hormone found in most humans in varying amounts depending on varying factors. It is excreted or lost in times of agitation, surprise or stress, as in “you scared the bejesus outta me!” Similar to, but still distinct from ‘crap’, which has an entirely different odour when it is ‘scared outta you’. It has been known to stimulate the ‘Fuck This-FT’ response which is responsible for the ‘Clean all the Shit Syndrome-CSS’, ‘Send Incoherent Emails your Ex Disorder-SIEED’ (except he’s not really your ex, because you have to be a ‘thing’ before you can be an ‘ex-thing’ and he wasn’t into being a ‘thing’, and would only state (under great duress) that your ‘thing’ was slightly more than friends with occasional benefits, odd movie dates, with witty and occasionally racy texting on the side kind of ‘thing’), and the subsequent ‘Sound Like a Fecking Idiot Syndrome-SLFIS’ which has been linked to ‘Eating the Whole Goddamn Box of Cookies’, ‘Hating All of Your Clothes’, and can include side effects such as ‘web searches for plastic surgery’, ‘installing dating apps’, ‘uninstalling dating apps’ , ‘application of detoxifying lime green facial masks’, ‘having existential conversations with the cat’, can also trigger Hamster Wheel thought brain override. Bejesus is not for everyone. Ask your doctor if Bejesus is right for you. If you’re a woman in the United States ask your white male congressman if Bejesus is right for you, then ask your white male conservative Christian religious leader if Bejesus is right for you, then pole your white male relatives to see if Bejesus is right for you, then consider why you need Bejesus in the first place, and why aren’t you happy enough in your subservient societal role, and let go of all this ‘Uppity Woman Bullshit’, and get your ass back in the kitchen and just make the men in your life a goddamn sandwich, like God intended.

tarantino-sukiyaki-xlarge Movie. Great idea. Quentin Tarantino movie, even better. There will be no covert love story, no sweeping music, no heartfelt redemption, just fabulous gut and brain splattering violence, the very darkest humour, and Samuel (Fucking) L. Jackson, who is even awesome without is testicles (oops, spoiler alert).

totally

So you go to a Saturday night movie by yourself because you’re a strong independent woman who makes sandwiches for nobody, and it’s awesome, running into people you know, not having to share your popcorn, drinking whatever you want to drink and sitting wherever you want to. Which turns out to be basically the same amount of popcorn, same drink and the same spot in the theatre, but you don’t even notice this because you are having a fabulous time dammit, and it’s Quentin Tarantino, could you be any more clever? No, I don’t think so. So there you are, in the same seats, eating your popcorn, with your jacket on the seat beside you, because not sharing is fucking awesome, and then an eHarmony add!? e-fucking-Harmony? Can they actually do that? Which triggers the Bejesus cycle and it takes half a bag of popcorn, 10 twizzlers, and 3 violent movie trailers before you get back to your self actualized independent woman who gives zeros fucks about all the adorable couples surrounding her in the movie theatre.

online dating in 7 words.

Thank god for Quentin Tarantino, and Twizzlers.

Mar20

things I should have figured out by now

Posted on March 20, 2016 by glasshill

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Swear to God, when I was 18 and 19 years old, I thought I would be handed a playbook, or a key, or knowledge would just magically appear in my brain when I turned 20. Just like that, one day a kid who knew nothing, and then BOOM! instant adult, ALL questions answered. Also, my skin would clear up.

Imagine my profound disappointment. Maybe 20 was unrealistic, but surely 30?

I was raised to think that ‘adults’ knew everything, that ‘adults’ never questioned things because at some magical ‘adult’ age all the answers simply landed in their brains. I am not making this up. I really thought, well into my 30s that I had missed the important download of ‘adultness’ and that everyone else had this shit figured out and I was the only one who was just flying by the seat of my pants.

Things I have still not figured out:

low maintenance hair
clear skin
walking in heels – gracefully
how to file (neatly)
spell words with all the right letters, in the right order
money, the part where I earn it and spend it only on responsible and prudent things, save for vacations, and not say, on another low maintenance hair product
how to paint my toenails (neatly)
professionally done
how to store art supplies (neatly)
not worry if these pants make my ass look flat/fat/good/not good, or if this shirt/bra makes my boobs look less pathetic/perky/worth noticing, and does my hair work with this outfit, or should I scrap the whole look and start over? Never mind, starting over…
Plastic surgery, worth it for my floundering self esteem, or shameless vanity that I should find beneath me
how to Ohm properly, or pronounce Sanskrit words
how to remember and pronounce 90% of people’s names
men. I haven’t a clue. I know I’m okay looking , reasonably intelligent, and also men like the hair, but I keep ending up with a different version of the exact same guy
how to fake enthusiasm when I give zero fucks (zero fucks blog link)
eyebrows, pluck, wax, tattoo….
how to ‘stand up and greet your neighbour!’ without wanting to vomit into my purse first, or crawl away secretly underneath the chairs
get to bed at a reasonable time
making soup, eatable soup
fly kites
remove contact lens
read bad poetry – I can’t even

What I can do reasonable well:

doodle/draw/paint for hours upon hours
fold socks and towels in an organized and orderly fashion
make my bed
teach yoga
make people laugh
tip well
playing cribbage in an unsportsmanlike but entertaining manner, or as we like to say, 31 ….. Bitch..
jigsaw puzzles
watch movies
cook and bake, not counting soup
eating – I’m super good at eating
drinking coffee, but I’m really fussy…
dressing up and passing for an elegant intelligent woman for entire evenings at a time
being generally half decent to peole
supported fish pose – I totally rock this pose
staying calm when things get crazy
getting a massage – so good at this
dessert
rationalizing reasons to eat dessert
sleeping in contact lens
drive a stick shift

Ultimately, I don’t have a clue. I am making everything up as a go. I suppose this is okay, but the skin not clearing up, I’m still pissed about that.

Mar18

hamster wheels

Posted on March 18, 2016 by glasshill

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a74e60b5e292e4e15bd3e9430319439c I have a section in my brain where all the crazy thoughts go and spin around faster and faster. It looks exactly like this

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPnwsxBLkBM

I have responsibly roped off this area with bright yellow police tape, and have forbidden myself to go in there when I’m lonely, hungry, tired, upset…. anything but perfectly well adjusted and zen like, which translates to…. let me think… oh right, never.

cd4d95dc92f7eb5783a2f56e2c209cb0 Somehow today I magically transported myself into the hamster wheel zone. Not my best work. It has been unfun. I have been what you might call “unenlightened”, or if you were being more direct “Bat-Shite Crazy”.

and, I didn’t have a snickers bar.
confession – I don’t like snickers bars.
question – does this doom me to a lifetime of being ‘not myself’?

I did have a nap, cookies, and talked things over with Fezzik, until he had to chase a squirrel. That’s as close as I get to a Snickers.

Mar13

Zen Bitch

Posted on March 13, 2016 by glasshill

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It started inncoently enough, as such things do, with a friendly cribbage game.

Much later a hashtag was born.

Adventures of a curmudgeonly yogi to follow.

	glasshill on Let Me ‘Splain…
	Erin Ransford on Let Me ‘Splain…
	glasshill on Teaching Yoga in Jail: What I…
	theyogakate on Teaching Yoga in Jail: What I…
	glasshill on the post in which I swear. a…

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