Fuck You, Yoga

First — I categorically hate yoga. Yoga makes me angry. I hate the smug little Lululemon asses in their downward-facing-oh-you-didn’t-spend-$120-on-yoga-pants?-dog in front of me. I especially loathe the people who say, when I say that yoga makes me angry:

Wow. You really need yoga.

Go shit in a singing bowl.

Now that we all understand that I categorically hate yoga…

In October 2016, I was bound and determined to lay aside my biases (which are even more lengthy than the few mentioned above) and go do some Bikram yoga. I like the hot room. I like the merciless instructor. I basically like Bikram because it’s about getting shit done and having no fucks in a 105 degree room and letting your bullshit melt away in a pool of I hope they have people to wipe THAT up (they don’t) for 90 minutes.

What I hate about Bikram and hot yoga in general is having to smell some dude’s lavender-scented ballsac for 60 to 90 minutes. I hate having to see it even more, and yes — it’s happened.

Men – don’t wear Daisy Dukes to yoga. Corral your gents in a…well, anything.

I digress.

So, in my suck-it-up style of dedication to doing Bikram for 30 days, I bought a new yoga mat and a nice hot yoga mat towel. I chose blue because if I’m going to hate something, I might as well like the color while I hate it.

My mat arrived right before I had to leave for rehearsal so I brought it inside and left.

This is what I came home to:

Hippopotamus (yes, that is my big dog’s name) had eaten the end off of my brand new yoga mat like it was a bacony treat. Perhaps he thought it was a Subway sandwich.

This was the universe telling me — hey, E.? Stop doing shit you hate. Yoga isn’t for you.

I listened. Fuck you, yoga. And fuck that blue half-eaten mat especially. And good dog.

Until yesterday.

See, yesterday — I decided to go to yoga. On Saturdays, my show has a 2pm matinée and an 8pm evening show, which means between 3:30-7pm, I’m free as a bird. It’s not really enough time to go home, but it is enough time to do something and eat dinner. Yesterday, my something was a yoga sculpt class a short train ride away from the theatre.

Yoga. Heat. Weights. Yeah, these people aren’t fucking around. I’m in.

So, I grab my half eaten blue yoga mat and catch the bus to the theatre for the matinée. I sent a couple emails, looked at Facebook and HOLY SHIT — I MISSED MY STOP TO TRANSFER. Apparently, the 22 bus in Chicago was running at warp speed yesterday, so I launched myself off the bus one stop past my transfer and luckily, my transfer bus was rolling up. Up and onto the bus. WOO! Adulting, I can do this. I wander to the back, take my seat…

Wait. Where’s my yoga mat?

Mother. Of All. That is FUCK.

My blue yoga mat was heading south on a CTA bus. And if you’ve ever lost anything on a bus, you know you’ll never see it again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Deep breath. Well, fuck it. And yes, this is a lot of fucks in a very short time span but not only was I going to do yoga, but I was going to use my half-eaten blue mat and now I’m a bit sad because if nothing else it was a nice color and IT IS NOW HEADING SOUTH ON A BUS AND I AM HEADING WEST ON ANOTHER BUS FUCK YOU, YOGA.

I did the show and had forgotten that yoga mats are props in the show. Heyo! So, I talk to the stage manager and grab one of the mats off stage and head to the train, proud that I had hacked my lost yoga mat and now, I would be going to a yoga class BECAUSE I CAN DO THIS. Fuck you, yoga. You will not stop me. I will see your chair pose and raise you a table for eight and a centerpiece, motherfucker.

I hop the train and ride 3 stops, exiting on the Brown Line Western stop. Google Maps tells me to take a right on Western and a left on Lawrence. This will deliver me — early, even — to the yoga place. I start walking.

Wait. Where’s my yoga mat?

Mother. Of All. That is FUCK.

Seriously?

This is happening. I realize my yoga mat is still riding on the Brown Line and I…am not.

Now, not only have I lost TWO yoga mats in four hours, I have lost a yoga mat that is REQUIRED for our show that evening and that did not belong to me.

This is a special level of stupid that in all my 43 years, I had never before achieved. ALL I WANTED WAS FOR MY HIPS AND LOWER BACK TO HAVE THE SAME FLEXIBILITY AS DONALD TRUMP’S MORAL COMPASS AND I AM BEING PUNISHED FOR TRYING TO NOT HATE YOGA.

I just stood on the sidewalk in the dreary yet warm Chicago afternoon trying to find another word for “idiot.”

I failed.

So I walked to the yoga studio. I open the double doors. I approach the counter and three lovely young women with skin glowing like only a 20-something’s skin can are standing and chatting.

“Hello. I have a reservation for the 4:30 yoga sculpt class. I also need to buy a mat.”

They ask if I’m new to yoga.

“No. I’ve just lost two mats in 4 hours and I need to replace the second one because it’s not mine and it’s a long story.”

You’ve lost TWO mats?

“Yes. I left one on the bus and one on the train. I’m completely fucked when it comes to yoga mats today.”

They just stare. I can only assume it’s because this woman standing before them has lost two yoga mats in four hours and has just dropped the f-bomb in a place of spiritual serenity. This woman needs yoga.

Wow, one of the girls says. That’s a…terrible kind of day.

“Yeah. How much is that one?” <pointing to the blue (of course) cello-wrapped yoga mat on the bottom shelf>

$25

“Ring that up.”

I get rung up. So, let’s take inventory here, shall we?

I’ve lost two yoga mats in four hours — one on the bus and one that didn’t even belong to me on the train. I’ve proven myself an irresponsible adult that cannot even hold onto a rolled, cylindrical object made of foam. And now, I am on my THIRD yoga mat in four hours.

It is paid for.

They direct me to the ladies’ locker room. Understanding how shitty my three-yoga-mat-day has been, they tell me my studio is open so I can go…calm down. I thank them. Grateful to have arrived at my yoga destination and ready to have the shit kicked out of me me by some heat and some teeny tiny weight, I head to the locker room.

At which point, one of the girls come running after me with my THIRD blue yoga mat in hand.

You forgot your mat.

Of course I did. Just…of course.

I go to the class and am reminded for an hour just how inflexible I am and how good it feels to sweat and I am working HARD AS HELL just to begrudge those two other yoga mats that are exploring the greater Chicago area in the delightful climate control of various CTA vehicles. Fuck you, yoga. I DID YOU AND I DID YOU ON THIS BLUE MAT.

I emerge. I am recharged. I lovingly roll up The New Blue Yoga Mat and retreat to the locker room, where I am in desperate need of a shower.

And now, I’m terrified.

What if I lose this mat? I mean, I have an 18-minute trip between this studio and the theatre. I have to get something to eat (goddamn, I am hungry) and that means there are TWO possible places I could leave this yoga mat in the next hour and a half.

I get undressed and hop in the shower and the whole time I’m showering, I’m on the verge of a panic attack about someone taking my mat which is in one of those open-cubby-style “lockers” in the locker room, about 25 feet away from my wet, shampoo-y self.

When I’m done with the shower, I don’t even bother to dry off and wrap my towel around me, leap OUT of the shower and (literally) run to the cubby area to see if the mat is still there.

Still there. Sigh of relief.

I towel off, get dressed and head over into another part of the locker room to blow dry my hair.

Away from the yoga mat.

At this point, I become the kid whose bedroom is on the second story of the house on Christmas eve. I wash my face, sneak around the corner to keep tabs on the yoga mat.

Still there. Yeah, you are, you little blue fucker. Good mat. STAY.

I blow dry my hair. Some.

Sneak around the corner. Mat’s still there. Goooooood mat.

If there are security cameras in that locker room, they are hoping I never come back because my locker room behavior — had it been at an airport — would have earned me a closed-door meeting with Homeland Security.

Alas, I am ready. I gather my things and wrap my arms around my Blue Yoga Mat #3 and head out into the Chicago evening, destined for the train. I board the train, refusing to release the yoga mat — as this had been my previous error, setting it on the seat next to me. I ride three stops, squeeze my yoga mat extra tight like it’s a friend my heart has yearned to see for years, and I climb down from the platform and head to get some dinner.

I chose a seat at the bar where Blue Yoga Mat #3 could ride shotgun with my fish tacos. For 30 minutes, I don’t take my eyes of that fucking Blue Yoga Mat. I don’t care if it smelled like fish tacos — I wasn’t losing this one.

I pay my tab, ask myself no fewer than four times, “Do you have the mat? Yes, you’ve got it. You sure? Yep. Right here. Wait — this mat? Yep. Got the mat, you paranoid nit. Now get your ass to the theatre.”

So I do. I get my ass the two blocks to the theatre, walk in, and place the yoga mat all rolled up on the shelf where it is set with the others at the top of the show. I find the stage manager and explain to her how much of a inarguable tool I am, having lost the show’s mat but never fear — it has been replaced by a relative TWIN!

And the show goes on.

And I still fucking hate yoga. But fuck you, yoga. I got you done. And it only took three mats to do it.

Today’s hard truth? When someone shows up, give them credit for showing up because you never quite know what it took for them to show up in the first place.

And give yourself more credit for showing up. Because yesterday, I could have quit at the first mat.