Inconsiderate Yogi
a story about distractions
It was either the Babylonian king Hammurabi, or Omar Little from The Wire who said, “a man’s gotta have a code.” Since I’ve never had my own HBO show, or ruled over an ancient kingdom, I’m in no position to argue. My code is simple: return your shopping cart, don’t use your phone in a movie theater, and show up to yoga on time.
I like to arrive ten minutes early for yoga. That way, I have time to use the bathroom, put my phone on airplane mode, set up my mat and props, double-check to make sure I set my phone on airplane mode, stretch a little, triple-check my phone’s status, center myself, catch up on yoga studio gossip, re-center myself, quadruple-check my phone, and finally, exhale to start my practice off on the right foot. Or, as was the case this week, on my back.
Ten minutes into class, we were still on our backs, when we heard a knock at the door. One yogi yelped, another yogi farted. These startled reactions were understandable, as nobody uses that door. We use the door at the rear of the studio, and if we get confused about which door to use, there’s a helpful sign on the front door that says: “Don’t use this door, enter in back.”
Through the window, our yoga teacher motioned for the woman at the door to go around to the back of the studio. But she kept knocking. So our yoga teacher unlocked the door, let the woman in, and said, “we enter through the door in the back, and our policy is not to let anyone after class starts, but I’m going to make an exception. Please come in.”
That should’ve been the end of the disruption, but it was only the beginning. Twice Inconsiderate Yogi left her mat and exited the studio through the correct door to use the bathroom. Three times she walked across the room to swap out her yoga strap — a bold move considering that the yogis who arrived on time heard our teacher say, “we won’t need straps today.” And four times she got up to refill her water bottle. Inconsiderate Yoga did all of this over the course of a sixty fifty-minute class.
That night, I told Christina about Inconsiderate Yoga.
“I would’ve been like, lady, you’re working on my last nerve, and you have got to go!” Christina said. “But I guess that’s why I’m not a yogi.”
Christina was half-right. She totally would’ve said that, but her all-gas-no-breaks ethos has nothing to do with her non-yogi status. She’s not a yogi because — her words — “I fucking hate yoga, except for those restorative classes, where you just chill, and maybe they do a sound bath, I love those.”
To Christina, yoga is supposed to be a Zen-like experience. In practice, well my practice anyway, yoga is a motherfucker that tests your mind, body, and spirit. The trick, which is really the goal, but also the journey, is to stay present, to focus on the breath, to be in your body as it moves through space.
That’s easier written than lived, though. Every time I show up for yoga, my mind wanders and my breath falters. A few times in every session, I find myself at two with my body; Me-Me says, quit, Body-Me says, you’re stronger than you think, keep going.
Which brings me back to Inconsiderate Yogi. During her final water bottle run, I had two thoughts. First: if you keep drinking water, lady, you’re gonna have to pee a lot. Second: Inconsiderate Yogi isn’t the distraction, I am the distraction.
Actually, I’m always the distraction. I think about the other yogis and how they seem so much stronger and more flexible than me. I think about the piece I’m writing for work, or getting a burrito after class. I think about the things we need to fix around the house and the bigger things we need to fix in our society. I think about how long we’ve been in plank pose, and if all those planks cancel out an apple fritter. The truth is, I’ll think about anything and everything, except for my practice.
When I first started practicing yoga, I thought it was a bad thing when my mind wandered. Now, I think it’s a good thing when it comes back to the breath. Or, put another way, if you don’t wander, what does it even mean to be present?
Burrito Journalism
Last week, I shared a Note about witnessing something very disturbing:
There were strong reactions to the Note. Most people thought this guy was a monster, perhaps even a criminal. But a few people thought he was on to something. Which begs an important question: am I missing something here? I don’t know, but I intend to find out.
That’s where the situation normie community comes in. I’m going to eat a burrito from the middle out and write about it, and I need your support. According to my back-of-the-envelope calculations, I need about $20 for a burrito, a drink, tax, and tip. That comes out to four new monthly subscribers (assuming they cancel after one month), or one new annual subscriber. As soon as we hit either goal, burrito journalism will be unlocked.
Stick around and chat!
I ask, you answer (if you want)
What’s your code? Explain.
What’s with some people? Wrong answers only.
Are you present, or are you somewhere else? Details!
How long do you have to plank to offset an apple fritter? Asking for me.
Are you the distraction? Go deep!
Forgot the questions. You said doughnut?
Yoga hurts. I meditate every day in the morning whilst waiting for the Keurig. Thoughts don’t intrude and I’m completely centered on “hurry the hell up”. Oh yeah and the aroma. Does that count?
Now for some reason I have a craving for an apple fritter whilst sitting on a plank bench.
I feel that line "Inconsiderate Yogi isn't the distraction, I'm the distraction." When I go camping and someone in the campground is being noisy way too late into the evening, it's not necessarily their noise that keeps me from falling asleep, but my fuming inner rage that someone is being inconsiderate at a campground.