#CHAKRABRAH: Six Things I Hate About Yoga
1. Fellow yogis who - in that ephemeral moment of savasana bliss - clumsily knock over their way-over-stickered, $50 dollar water bottle so it chimes like a Buddhist gong near my freshly shaved head. Stolen forever, that fleeting moment of fragile peace… like an M80 of wretched excess exploding next to my hairy ear.
2. Fellow yogis who choose to forego bathing or showering - for seemingly weeks on end - somehow thinking their “natural,” toxic body order is welcomed/embraced in the studio… that their poisonously pungent, granola-boy/girl stench blends harmoniously with the sandalwood incense and white sage smudge. Remember, no bath… no sound bath.
3. Fellow yogis who walk on my meticulously wiped-down, squared up mat. Please note: when making your way to the prop wall, kindly stay off my mat.
4. Fellow yogis who, in the minutes before class commences, run on at the mouth in their most high decibel, shrillest voice, generally gloating about their recent “retreat” week in Tahiti or some virtue-signaling woke insight/good deed they’ve chosen to spray about.
5. Yoga instructors who get you all lathered up with soft electronic music, intentionally choreographed flows, bird-like balance postures… only to leave you hanging with an “Irish exit” when it comes time for savasana. Zoned out in your prone, corpse pose blur, you arise to find your teacher has slipped out of the room with nary a bell ring, shruti box moan, or crystal signing bowl reverberation. A virtual dharma ding-dong ditch, if you will.
6. Fellow yogis who - because they are SO, SO BUSY and trying earnestly to DO-IT-ALL - arrive late to class… requiring everyone to shift their mat(s), while kicking over a few HydroFlask & YETI H2O bottles… basically disrupting everyone’s fledgling chi. In short, don’t be tardy if you’re coming to my nama-fuckin-stay party.
