You know that I'm down with the Earthy, hippie shit. I'm at peace with the inner me, I enjoy my share of granola, own Janis Joplin's Greatest Hits, been known to hug an unsuspecting tree or two, I've even tried acupuncture. Hell, my middle name is Sunshine. What? It could so totally be Sunshine.
Fuck you, what do you know.
Anyway, I'm up to week 5 of a 12 week yoga class and I just couldn't bring myself to attend yesterday. I paid for it and didn't go and I don't feel bad about that at all. Why? Because the class is bad. Not just a little bad, it's bad bad. Example? On the first day of class, during the quiet, soothing meditation part, someone let their cellphone ring. For fifteen minutes.
I came out of that meditation with more ticks and rage than I went in with. Which is not easy.
As the classes continued, the problems continued; from the required peace chants to the breathing and humming where there should have been stretching and sweating right on through to the instructors incessant farting. Yes, that's right. I said farting. My yoga teacher farts. What's worse is that she doesn't seem to be putting any effort whatsoever into not farting. At first I felt bad and embarrassed for her, thinking the wayward toot was an unfortunate lark. But then, as time progressed, I realized that it was not so much a lark as it was some kind of ongoing digestive tract political campaign.
I pre-paid for 12 weeks and while I may be forced to fork out the dollars, that doesn't mean I'm forced to bathe in noxious fumes. I live with a boy, for fuck's sake, yoga is supposed to be a refuge from inconsiderate people and fart-filled air!
Yeah, yeah, I understand that flatulence is a perfectly natural and wonderfully human condition and that you should love the every aspect of your being and natural cavities blah blah blah blah ohmm ohmm ohmm ohmm ohmm... call me unreasonably girly if you must, but you try practicing deep, relaxing breaths when the air is purple.