Yoga, schmoga

OK, I’m officially Done with yoga.

Internets, I’ve tried. I mean, it’s kind of the law in Northern California. Plus, around here, you can’t smash the windows of a mani-pedi joint without the concussions causing a few cracks in the yoga studio next door. So, you know, I’ve tried. Maybe not every single variant, but a good half-dozen, and the only one that didn’t drive me bugfuck nuts was Bikram (because I like working out in the heat, and Bikram is the only form of exercise since I quit ballet that actually gives me a good enough stretch — but A, I’m pregnant so the heat is right out; B, that shit goes on for ninety minutes, and bitch, that’s too long).

The thing is, as a physical experience, yoga’s neither here nor there — not a good workout (unlike Pilates, which KILLS and which I love), and not really all that relaxing (unlike watching an entire season of Twin Peaks while on Tramadol).

And don’t get me started on the “spiritual” aspect. What a cartload of horseshit. All that directed “breathing” and “centering” and “feeeeling” this or that go through you — jesus BALLS, man. I can’t “center” anything when my eyes are bout to roll right out my head, and the “deep, cleansing breaths” are generally ruined by loud snorts of derision. I hear you’re supposed to be, like, focusing or something, but I’m sitting there in some really uncomfortable stretch alternating between composing a grocery list and thinking about what bullcorn this yoga stuff is.

So, like, bully for you if you like it and get something out of it, but as of last Saturday, when the prenatal yoga DVD kept encouraging me to “inhale deeply, expanding [my] ribcage to give the precious new life more room inside of [me],” I’m gonna have to give it a pass.

Om, mothafuckas.