As you may have noticed by now, there are certain people that I despise. Certain people I encounter who are either blissfully unaware of their maladies or who deliberately flaunt them in my face as if dangling a steak in front of a lion. (Yes, in that scenario I am a lion. It’s my blog. I can be a lion.)
I was reminded last night of one such type. We’ve all seen them. On our commute, in our office, on the street…they’re everywhere. They even have fucking uniforms.
They are…yoga people.
God I hate yoga people. From their stretchy stretch pants to their biodegradable tote bags…I hate them all.
Manhattan is the most image conscious city in the country, with the exception of Los Angeles and possibly Miami. It’s Neverland and people refuse to admit they are subject to the same aging process as the rest of America. You’re judged by how young you manage to appear even as throngs of additional gorgeous people float into the city each day as if Penn Station was some sort of unlimited cocoon of butterflies.
I get it. Be healthy, exercise, stay in shape. Good! But for the love of all that is holy, lose the fucking mats.
What’s with the mats? Why do you need a special mesh netted sling that you throw over your shoulder? Are you some sort of ancient explorer who needs access to your nautical charts? Are you an architect going to visit a job site? Or are you fucking urban camping and that is your tent.
I don’t fucking get it. Are there not lockers where you are going? Even at goddamn nap time in pre-school I remember there were little crates with which to store your mat. How have we devolved so much as adults?
No, I know why you carry them around. Because it is literally IMPOSSIBLE for someone to partake in yoga without talking about it and, in the absence of speaking about it, you distinguish yourself by carrying the mat. It’s like some sort of secret fraternal thing. I see yoga people nod to each other and hike up their own sling when passing other yoga people. They discuss the activities using code words like “Downward Facing Dog” or “Chakra” or “Cat-Cow Stretch” or “Sun Salutation” or my favorite, “Half Lord of the Fishes Pose”.
Are you…fucking…kidding me?
A friend of mine does yoga…he’s a guy. He’s in the Navy and he told me that the military actually uses yoga now for its PT (physical training) because of its difficulty. He swears by it and even does Bikram Yoga (the hot/sweaty yoga) with his wife. Not too long ago he tried to encourage me to do it as well, saying that there are a lot of hot women who take the classes with them. Yeah, cause that’s what hot women want to see… a sweaty, pale Irish guy looking like he is trying to get into skinny jeans while having a seizure.
And yet, in the face of this unbelievable stupidity, people everywhere LOVE yoga. They talk about its spirituality and freeing nature. One girl even said to me that it “isn’t exercise, it is a lifestyle”.
I never spoke to her again.
The reason I was reminded of the yoga people is that each night on my way home from work I pass by a Bikram Yoga studio on 83rd Street and 3rd Avenue. It has floor to ceiling windows that are fogged up due to the intense heat inside but through the mist you’re still able to make out amazingly hot people wearing next to nothing.
The best part about this studio is that just across the street, almost within view from the windows, is a McDonald’s. Last night a portly woman and her husband emerged from the McDonald’s and flanked me as I walked down 3rd Avenue. When we arrived outside the studio windows it was impossible not to look up to the well lit studio and see the emaciated puppets frolicking along in perfect harmony.
Before I turned on 83rd Street to head back to my apartment I overhead the woman (between munches of fries) remark to her husband, “Look at that shit. No fuckin way I’m doin that shit”. To which the man replied, “Damn, it looks hot in there”.
And as they waddled off into the night, I had more respect for their plumpness than the psycho cult meeting going on two floors above them. Because at least they were subtle about their inactivity and not flaunting it with a florescent apparatus strapped to their back and a dictionary of ridiculous phrases clutched under their arms. If they wanted to work out, they would. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t. But they didn’t advertise.
So, to summarize, fuck the yoga people.