Dear Yoga Instructor wearing Aladdin Pants*, ***
I will be honest with you – I really don’t love yoga to begin with. But in attempts to appease my coach, I do put out my finest effort to attend class one time per week. In fact, I sought far and wide for months on end, solely to find the perfect instructor. Oh this wonderful woman, bless her heart. As this is not Acts 2 in which we are enabled to converse in many tongues, nor do we all live in Uttarakhand, she refrains from speaking in pure Sanskrit. She makes us work, because that’s what a workout typically strives to accomplish. She does not whisper for us to relax while assuming “happy baby”, because I am slightly past the infantile stage, and remember? I did come here to work out.
But today, my dear friend clad in the trousers of Aladdin, she was not here. And instead I found you. Ill-mannered, offensive, tactless – these are not atributes I like to associate with myself. So I decided to remain upon my mat of imminent doom and wait it out. You could in fact have been quite similar to my wonderful instructor who does not end every single word with –sana, or blow sweet hot breath in my ear. However, it was quickly apparent that you indeed were not.
Your opening chant – which I am quite sure carried on for roughly 37 minutes, though the studio sanctuary clock insisted only took 2 – should have been my cue to say Punardarśanāya Sucka!! But no. In fact, you seemed to be so entrhalled, so mezmorized, during that that 37 minutes sans oxygen brief hymn, that I decided to come home and translate. I was simply dying to know of this magic placed upon me. This is what I came to find:
I bow to the lotus feet of the guru
who awakens insight into the happiness of pure Being,
who is the final refuge, the jungle physician,
who eliminates the delusion caused by the poisonous
herb of samsara [conditioned existence].
I prostrate before the sage Patanjali
who has thousands of radiant, white heads
[in his form as the divine serpent, Ananta]
and who has, as far as his arms,
assumed the form of a man holding a conch shell [divine sound],
a wheel [discus of light, representing infinite time]
and a sword [discrimination].
Though not quite sure where to begin tackling this sailors knot of nonsense, I will send my regrets to the sage/serpent/man holding a seashell with many heads/swoards/arms/wheels. I will not be consuming any poisonous samsara, and he will not be receiving my bow.
When you asked me to look to the sky (while indoors) and relax my eyeballs, I wanted to ask you to relax your jaw and clock you in the face. It should be known that you must in fact contract your superior rectus in order to move your eyeball in an upwards direction. To the particle board ceiling. Sans[ana] any clouds.
I understand that it is hot in your sanctuary, which may cause you to become a tad loopy. Perhaps this is not your typical conduction of this sacred practice of breathing in through both nostrils while holding the glottis partially closed. Perhaps you don’t truly believe we are changing the world by acquiring ustrasna, for it more closely resembles a stripper than a camel. Perhaps you don’t frequently burglarize young lads by the name of Aladdin for his single pair of pants. Perhaps you simply thought – damn yo, those pants are hot! – and went to Joann Fabrics to construct a pair for yoruself.
I part from you, Yoga Instructor Wearing Aladdin Pants, with a small request: to simply notify me next time your nadi(s) – your great yogic nerves conveying the life force; Ida, Pingala and Sushumna – will be occupying this particular studio on this day at this time. I will reserve this spot in the sanctuary for one of your fellow yoginis, and kindly refrain from assuming Virabhadrasana [warrior pose] and sending an arrow in your direction.
Santi out, homeboy. Give those pants back before you go home.
-Erika
*Hopefully this goes without saying, but of course I have nothing against those who fully enjoy yoga, or practice it on a regular basis. This is not meant to offend anyone, and is intended to be taken with a grain of salt. As in the hahaha kind of salt. Mama always said you can’t be friends with everybody**, and Yoga, you and I just ain’t gonna work out.
**OK, she never really told me that. She should have though.
*** Credit to my inspiration and consistent, loyal dose of laughter. http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
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