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Red Alert: You Might Be a Yoga Whore If…

SATIRE

One Thursday, not long ago, I was scheduled to teach three classes at one studio.

I felt it was okay to drive across town between dinner and my night gig to take class at another studio. My husband raised his eyebrows at this frivolity. He said people would talk. He said they might judge. I guess I’m just your everyday yoga ho’ next door. I’ll go out of my way for a nice piece of asana. Here are some signs you might have the same affliction.

You row your boat pose around town with different yoga teachers in different studios. Have some self-respect. Your body is your temple. Use discretion. Pick a corner.

You had an Om symbol tattooed on your haunches. And you’re getting it covered up with lotuses. Not that I would know anything about this special kind of regret. Did you use a Groupon to get your ShantiShanti tramp stamp? Keep it in your pants. Pay cash. Have some class. For that ass.

 

You catch yourself humming “Om Namah Shivaya” while driving, grocery shopping or tucking your children in at night. Even though you’re totally not spiritual about yoga. It just helps you relax, right? Sure, yoga skank. Keep diggin’ that hole.

When stopped at a red light you can’t stop yourself from car-dancing your favorite moves from Shiva Rea’s Trance Dance DVD. Your prana is flowing so fierce your car doesn’t even need gas. You are a prana gyration machine. Way to be green, you sleazy car-dancin’ queen.

Your mother hasn’t spoken to you since you changed your name to Jane MyBhujangasanaBeBangin Doe on your social networks. They’re not making awards for your kind of special. Bang it out, weirdo.

You delight in getting  friend requests from strange bearded yoga dudes you met at kirtan. You confirm them all sight unseen, cheap little cocoa puff that you are.

 

You squeeze in a yoga class before stressful family gatherings much like you’d suck down a furtive gulp of tequila before and after asking your boss for a raise. You are one dirty trick. Now button your top button.

You sneak out of work to go to yoga. Untag yourself from your teacher’s Facebook post congratulating you on your wicked headstand so your boss won’t find out. You’ve been a very bad girl.

After your private yoga session with your flavor of the month instructor, Sven, you go home and shower like you have something to feel guilty about. Like not tipping him? So you write a Yelp review for your him that says, “for a good time call 976-SVEN.” You wonder the next day why he protects his tweets. Sven’s boyfriend gives you the evil eye for a week.

You shamelessly go to Sven’s three hour yoga immersions on Saturday nights instead of clubbing with your bitches. You’re getting a reputation. Your street cred is ruined. People are talking.

 

The morning after, you experience a severe yoga hangover, and have to skip your daily meditation. Your throat is sore from chanting all those Sita Rams.” Your eyes are bloodshot from the incense. Your chakras are spinning so hard, you’re dizzy. You’re so dehydrated from your yoga bender even the gallon of coconut water Sven talked you into buying isn’t helping. Get out of the gutter, woman. The only cure for a yoga hangover is a pile of greasy brunch and a Bloody Mary, and nude trespasser yoga in a nearby pasture. Not that this Wisconsin girl would know anything about that either.

You brag about how bad your hot yoga body aroma is as if it’s a badge of honor. It is. You know those poofdiddle crystal deodorant sticks don’t work. Patchouli is not a bath, yoga hussy.

You think hanumanasana (splits) is appropriate for desk yoga. The world is not ready to be your gynecologist. Save the high-voltage poses for the studio.

 

You spend your cheddar on moisture-wicking, slutty yet cozy yoga clothes (fancy pajamas) that you’d normally spend on going-out ensembles and CFM heels.

You boast to your yogi friends about how Sven is the best yoga instructor in town. Smoke a cigarette after his class. Realize what you’ve become. Practice safe yoga. Be kind and fair in your reviews of other teachers, you wild wanton thing. You never know when Sven might slip you a sub.

You become a yoga teacher. This is the peak of selling your body to yoga. But you bettah work. Teaching yoga is cutthroat, I’m shocked to learn. There’s always another truffle around the block who will work for a couple bucks less than you. Don’t be fooled by the lipsticked faux smiles. Trust those who speak soft and low, those whose roots live down deep in the dirt. Above all, trust your own gut. This business might chew us up and spit us out. But we’re flexible and quick to heal. We can get back on the horse. Reverse cowgirl style. Giddap’.

Hold your head high, tartlette, even though your tie-dyed thong is showing. Your body belongs to you. It is your sanctuary, your salvation and your practice is a pure expression of self -love. Admitting you might be a yoga whore just means you live a wholesome life and you aren’t afraid to fly your freak flag. Enjoy the ritual. Kiss and tell. If you feel like a dirty yoga addict, console yourself with the possibility that your favorite yoga retailer is one step away from offering hot yoga nipple pasties. In luon, of course.

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About

Hally Marlino is a blue collar yoga teacher and writer from Madison, WI. She's a spirituality skeptic with a BA in Theatre Performance from UW-La Crosse. Years ago, she held a low rank in the U.S. Army. When she’s not teaching freestyle vinyasa around the isthmus, you’ll find her bike-riding and beer-appreciating with her family. Hally is exactly half ballerina, half professional wrestler. Connect with her on Facebook at YogaBeast or Tigress Press.

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