Sigh. Yoga. Again.

(This is me, waving a little white flag.)

(At yoga.)

(Because remember how hot yoga sucks?)

(Well, apparently I’m not so good at warm yoga, either.)

(And I don’t think cold yoga exists.)

I hear from so many people that I need to do yoga. I’m sorry, "practice" yoga. So I tried again this week. Twice.

And, while I really like the stretchiness of it, since I’m not a stretchy person by nature, I was once again reminded that yoga isn’t for me, no matter how many times I try to make it for me. Because I want it to be for me. But it’s not. Why?

Well, right off the bat, the "Ommmmmmmm" made me think I had been kidnapped and was actually attending an exorcism. And I’m Catholic, and not always a really good girl, so that made me understandably nervous.

Then, second of all, I am a rule follower. I am a do-things-right-or-don’t-do-them-at-all person. The whole premise of "whatever you do is yoga and it is good" doesn’t fly with me. If I touch my toes on one particularly flexible day, is that yoga? No. It’s not. I need a white-chalk outline on the yoga mat showing me exactly where my parts are to be at all times so I know that I’m doing it right. Or that I’m a corpse. Both are useful pieces of information.

Third of all, I don’t normally sit still. So when they would contort me into a pose that was actually comfortable and they would leave me there for five minutes and nobody would talk...well, I’d doze off. I admit it.

Fourth of all, I don’t like other people’s sweat near me. So if you are an extremely large man in extremely small non-absorbent NYLON shorts and nothing else except for a thick layer of back hair, and if you tend to grunt loudly and sweat profusely, and you plan to be anywhere near me, well, then, that cancels any enjoyment down dog or up dog could bring me.

Fifth of all, the constant affirmation. Please. Where’s the "try harder?" Where’s the "achieve more?" At one point the teacher came over and pointed to a spot on the other end of my mat and whispered, "No, put your knee here" and I said back, in maybe too loud of a whisper, "It won’t GO there." She smiled and said, "It’s all good" and floated away.

WTF? No, it’s not all good, in fact it’s WRONG. Why can’t you tell me that? Are you afraid I won’t like you if you criticize me?

And the whole "Accept who and what you are."

"Accept the electricity flying from the tips of your fingers."

"Show your thighs some love."

Deep breath.

1. If I accept who and what I am then I will never write a book or run ten miles in 80 minutes or weigh less than a small farm animal. And that, my friends? That renders me without purpose.

2. If electricity is flying from the tips of my fingers, I’ve lost some desperate, last-minute appeal and I’m strapped into Old Sparky. Or I’ve been struck by lightning. Neither scenario is relaxing to me.

3. Show my thighs some love? Seriously? Honey, these suckers can power me through a body pump class, but they ain’t pretty in short shorts or a bathing suit. We need to pick another body part if we’re going to be showing love. (And get your mind out of the gutter. I’m afraid I can’t even find my immersion blender.)

Now, dear yoga, lucky for us both I am frugal, and I did buy an odor-repellent, sweat-repellent, buy-this-and-you’ll-rock yoga blanket. So I shall return, until I have amortized the cost of the blanket or I can stand on my head. Whichever comes first.

Note: yoga people are so zen (or such cheating bastards) that there was no price tag on the blanket, they didn’t know how much it cost and they didn’t give me a receipt. In a yogi spirit I think I was just supposed to accept it for what it is. (I would have accepted it for free, but they were watching me through half-closed, zen-like eyes.) (And I didn’t want to get arrested and ruin the good vibe in the place.)

Namaste. Over & out.