Yoga is completely ridiculous. Some ex-alcoholic told me it changed his life, I should have taken that as a sign – just going to the supermarket will change your life once you quit alcohol. Anyway, I have a nasty habit of trusting people who give me advice instead of listening to my own intuition, so I took some lessons.
My second lesson was called “Yin” (without the Yan), given by Kate who speaks with a nasal voice that nobody but her and those who know The Poses understands. We all have our little 65 euro subscription like Basic Fit *******, ordered online without talking to anyone, paid with a VISA card and digital money, perfectly anonymous. The yoga room is like an empty, industrial, concrete space, filled with black yoga mats. Since it’s cheap, there are about 30 or more people cramped into this tiny space, you’re afraid to stretch your arms in case you accidentally touch somebody’s stinky feet. There are blocks of wood and a cushion and a blanket, which you are told to take to your mat. There are mostly women, but you’re not here to drool, only cold sweat will do. It’s a whole concept, and you’re buying. You pay little, you get little, like McDonalds for the body. No pressure, they say… but you have to be 5 minutes ahead of class and when you get there, you must punch in on the computa, like it’s ****** job.
Nobody talks to you, or even looks at you. The so-called instructor doesn’t explain anything or help you, or even watches what you’re doing. I know for sure I didn’t get ANY of the Poses right, I was just half asleep breathing softly and in agony in some awkward position. It’s not even practice for *** or anything, just some stuff to make you regret you have limbs and muscles. But how can you teach a dolphin to ride a bike? It’s impossible. They go from Pose to Pose, and everyone seems to know what they’re doing, or at least they are well-trained in pretending this is Good For You. I’m not even checking the ladies, even though I still get looks like I’m a pervert when I’m just looking to see where I should put my legs. Inbetween my ears with my left arm over my hips or something completely ridiculous, painfully impossible to any normal human being.
I have no flexbility and I’m missing a few organs, so **** this. I can’t even touch my own toes. The few men that are there all look like serial killers or people with serious autistically challenged psychological issues. Tense. They look very tense. I’m troubled myself, mind you. This is why I am here, ******. I thought this yoga practice was supposed to make you feel relaxed and mellow. Quite the contrary, my dear. I’m ready to go on a killing spree in Russia. Give me a knife, I’m ready to die without my shoes on, right here on the streets of Ixelles. When I come back from a yoga session, I’m annoyed, angry and full of some twisted bad vibes, not counting the headache.
Yoga. It’s just strange energy in a small sweaty room with strange people. Like sitting on the subway with your face between your legs, eyes glued to your phone because the world around you is so ****** up, you just wanna get home to your safe place. Just another scam for insecure people who are afraid to go to a bar alone to try to get laid. Have mercy on my soul. The complete ridiculousness of the world is upon us. Maybe I just had a bad teacher, someone said. So I took a third lesson, just to make sure, and completed Yoga for Beginners. Same ****, different control freak. Some woman actually put her foot on my black yoga mat, an invasion of my privacy, bordering racism, which I did not appreciate. There wasn’t a Pose that I could hold and when the teacher, a good one this time, came down to help me, I just smiled softly to reassure her everything was going to be ok. The humilation, the horror. Next time I’ll just go for a drink and try to pick up some females coming back from yoga class. Tomorrow, I shall begin to write about work.
Work, as you might have guessed, is completely ridiculous.
