Tag Archives: zenbitch

how to yoga

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how to yoga

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.

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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?

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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.

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bejesus. really, that’s a thing

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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.

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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-xlargeMovie. 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).

 

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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-inbox

online dating in 7 words.

Thank god for Quentin Tarantino, and Twizzlers.

 

things I should have figured out by now

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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)

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    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 wp-1457917804786.jpeg
  • 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
  • 20150913_144951-01.jpegdrinking coffee, but I’m really fussy…
  • dressing up and passing for an elegant intelligent woman for entire evenings at a timewp-1457917806537.jpeg
  • 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.

hamster wheels

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a74e60b5e292e4e15bd3e9430319439cI have a section in my brain where all the crazy thoughts go and spin around faster and faster. It looks exactly like this

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.

cd4d95dc92f7eb5783a2f56e2c209cb0Somehow 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.

 

 

 

Zen Bitch

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IMG_0444It 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.