How Not To Do Yoga

or Why Everything That Is Good For You Sucks

Photo courtesy of Yoga Journal (which I still haven’t read)

I remember the old days when only hippies did yoga. People who looked like they smelled bad and had dirty feet. Swamis and whatnot. Kooks, weirdos. John Lennon. Ralph Nader, probably (I have not researched this). People who drove VW Bugs, and not the hip, cute VW Bugs that are out there now. These were Bugs that always had at least one fender scraping the tire.

I’m not sure we’ve actually progressed that far, the only difference being that now the hippies wear Lululemon and Jo Malone perfume. And, of course, there’s the fact that everybody and their sister “does yoga.”

(whiny voice) I want to do yoga, too.

I eat yogurt and take probiotics. I almost understand what “eating clean” means. I have the mat. I have the pants. I have the subscription to Yoga Journal.

My actual (unread) Yoga Journals. Good for killing spiders, preventing coffee rings, etc.

And God knows, I need to do yoga. If a stranger dropped a check for a million dollars on the street in front of me, I would have to keep walking and console myself with the thought that I’m a millionaire where it counts, in my heart. Alternatively, I could get down on the sidewalk and then be rich enough to pay someone…