YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #16 "YOGA IN THE AGE OF TRUMP"
When I slipped through the door into the office and piled my flip flops and keys on the ledge in preparation of securing my mat and props, Samantha, smiling hopefully behind her desk and computer screen, asked, “Dell, do you play pickle ball?”
It makes sense Samantha would ask me a question like this, knowing I've alluded to her helping me with my tennis game by loosening up my right hip, and pickle ball, now the rage, is played on tennis courts. What she did not know is that I despise pickle ball. I feel it is a stupid game, a substitute for those too lazy to run after a ball, a game for mostly women and men who wrap their knees, elbows and wrists when they walk on a court. Also, pickle ball, while infringing on tennis courts, has culled people I used to play tennis with, and their exalting it peeves me no end.
So, when I answered an as-usual-happy-unsuspecting-of-overt-negativity Samantha, I found I could not keep my disdain for pickle ball out of my voice. “No,” I said. “I refuse to play pickle ball, Samantha.”
She continued smiling, but I could see that my tone of voice and attitude was already upsetting her and a few ladies in the room, also preparing to set up their mats and props.
“Oh,” Samantha murmured. “I thought, since you play tennis, you might play pickle ball, too,”
“I hate pickle ball,” I informed her. “ I think it's a stupid derivation of tennis.”
Now she looked a bit shocked, and I quickly realized that yoga people were not used to harshness, nor opinionated insensitive people blustering around early in the morning, especially over a subject as meaningless and in my mind worthless as pickle ball.
“Oh,” Samantha said. “Well, gee, Dell, I was thinking of starting pickle ball with some friends.”
I knew I was in trouble and said, perhaps condescendingly, “A bunch of ladies in Cayucos play pickle ball doubles a few mornings a week and they're really into it, they love it, and I think if they love it that's great. Maybe it's a great game for the ladies.”
I could have gone on, claiming pickle ball--like slow pitch softball is a desecration of baseball--is a desecration of tennis, but I could see Samantha was slightly rattled, as she and her yoga studio is not used to aggressively forceful views and roiling brazenness from its participants. Yoga is supposed to soothe our spirits, and here I was going overboard, startling and perhaps frightening Samantha and her students with my onslaught against poor old pickle ball, which, as far as I can see, is played by people my age unable to cover the court anymore, though I do know some men around my age who are super competitive and swear by pickle ball, and they don't seem to be too upset when I attack it as a desecration of tennis.
I suppose I must be more careful with my bombastic and vituperative opinions and exclamations, especially since Trump has been elected president and I have become so wrathful I've driven off old friends who support the bastard. Just the other day I was talking to another instructor, Reggie before class started, and as several ladies prepared their areas, along with one man, I found myself expounding on my belief that the loathsome despicable hateful President and his cabal of oligarchs and fascists were perpetrating a world wide race war of white against all people of color who are not Christians or Jews.
I was starting to foam at the mouth and could see Reggie getting nervous and he quickly said, “Dell, yoga is here to eliminate the stress of the world outside this studio so we can just relax and find our inner peace, our little haven of comfort.”
I realized immediately that some of the women meticulously setting up their areas, most of whom sport Bernie and Hillary for President stickers on the bumpers of their modest gas saving cars, were nevertheless shocked by my too loud outburst. Reggie probably senses I'm a crazed person outside his studio and seemed to be calming me down, a man half my age who had to treat me like the childish loose cannon I am at 73.
I do know though that several of these yoga ladies belong to Code Pink and marched against Trump in downtown San Luis Obispo after the election, but I guess my sudden ranting was strictly forbidden, as if I had began yelling irrationally at some sort of séance conducted by a Zen-like meditation guru where strict silence was enforced, or interrupted a somber silent Trappist Monk prayer meeting in a church with insane ravings.
So I retreated to my area and calmed down after recognizing the mildly disapproving but certainly not judgmental glance Reggie issued me, even though he agrees with me, just as they all do, I'm sure. I doubt one of these fine folks voted for the horrible monstrous prick now living in our white House. The idea of this evil obnoxious smug lying bully having an influence on my life is almost too much to endure day in and day out, and I'm sure most of these yoga peers of mine feel somewhat the same, though they probably, through yoga, have found a way not to allow it to distract and infect their lives like a murderous toxin.
Anyway, after my brief troubled chat with Samantha, I buckled down and made it through another yoga class, and afterwards, as Samantha held court with ladies preparing for the next class, which she would conduct, she caught my eye and I said, “Good luck with pickle ball, Samantha.”
“I'm starting my first game tomorrow,” she said, smiling, bursting with enthusiasm.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” I offered.
“That's what I've heard. I will.”
“Watch that ball right into your racket, like hitting a baseball, Samantha.”
“I will, Dell. Thank you.”
I can't help myself.
It makes sense Samantha would ask me a question like this, knowing I've alluded to her helping me with my tennis game by loosening up my right hip, and pickle ball, now the rage, is played on tennis courts. What she did not know is that I despise pickle ball. I feel it is a stupid game, a substitute for those too lazy to run after a ball, a game for mostly women and men who wrap their knees, elbows and wrists when they walk on a court. Also, pickle ball, while infringing on tennis courts, has culled people I used to play tennis with, and their exalting it peeves me no end.
So, when I answered an as-usual-happy-unsuspecting-of-overt-negativity Samantha, I found I could not keep my disdain for pickle ball out of my voice. “No,” I said. “I refuse to play pickle ball, Samantha.”
She continued smiling, but I could see that my tone of voice and attitude was already upsetting her and a few ladies in the room, also preparing to set up their mats and props.
“Oh,” Samantha murmured. “I thought, since you play tennis, you might play pickle ball, too,”
“I hate pickle ball,” I informed her. “ I think it's a stupid derivation of tennis.”
Now she looked a bit shocked, and I quickly realized that yoga people were not used to harshness, nor opinionated insensitive people blustering around early in the morning, especially over a subject as meaningless and in my mind worthless as pickle ball.
“Oh,” Samantha said. “Well, gee, Dell, I was thinking of starting pickle ball with some friends.”
I knew I was in trouble and said, perhaps condescendingly, “A bunch of ladies in Cayucos play pickle ball doubles a few mornings a week and they're really into it, they love it, and I think if they love it that's great. Maybe it's a great game for the ladies.”
I could have gone on, claiming pickle ball--like slow pitch softball is a desecration of baseball--is a desecration of tennis, but I could see Samantha was slightly rattled, as she and her yoga studio is not used to aggressively forceful views and roiling brazenness from its participants. Yoga is supposed to soothe our spirits, and here I was going overboard, startling and perhaps frightening Samantha and her students with my onslaught against poor old pickle ball, which, as far as I can see, is played by people my age unable to cover the court anymore, though I do know some men around my age who are super competitive and swear by pickle ball, and they don't seem to be too upset when I attack it as a desecration of tennis.
I suppose I must be more careful with my bombastic and vituperative opinions and exclamations, especially since Trump has been elected president and I have become so wrathful I've driven off old friends who support the bastard. Just the other day I was talking to another instructor, Reggie before class started, and as several ladies prepared their areas, along with one man, I found myself expounding on my belief that the loathsome despicable hateful President and his cabal of oligarchs and fascists were perpetrating a world wide race war of white against all people of color who are not Christians or Jews.
I was starting to foam at the mouth and could see Reggie getting nervous and he quickly said, “Dell, yoga is here to eliminate the stress of the world outside this studio so we can just relax and find our inner peace, our little haven of comfort.”
I realized immediately that some of the women meticulously setting up their areas, most of whom sport Bernie and Hillary for President stickers on the bumpers of their modest gas saving cars, were nevertheless shocked by my too loud outburst. Reggie probably senses I'm a crazed person outside his studio and seemed to be calming me down, a man half my age who had to treat me like the childish loose cannon I am at 73.
I do know though that several of these yoga ladies belong to Code Pink and marched against Trump in downtown San Luis Obispo after the election, but I guess my sudden ranting was strictly forbidden, as if I had began yelling irrationally at some sort of séance conducted by a Zen-like meditation guru where strict silence was enforced, or interrupted a somber silent Trappist Monk prayer meeting in a church with insane ravings.
So I retreated to my area and calmed down after recognizing the mildly disapproving but certainly not judgmental glance Reggie issued me, even though he agrees with me, just as they all do, I'm sure. I doubt one of these fine folks voted for the horrible monstrous prick now living in our white House. The idea of this evil obnoxious smug lying bully having an influence on my life is almost too much to endure day in and day out, and I'm sure most of these yoga peers of mine feel somewhat the same, though they probably, through yoga, have found a way not to allow it to distract and infect their lives like a murderous toxin.
Anyway, after my brief troubled chat with Samantha, I buckled down and made it through another yoga class, and afterwards, as Samantha held court with ladies preparing for the next class, which she would conduct, she caught my eye and I said, “Good luck with pickle ball, Samantha.”
“I'm starting my first game tomorrow,” she said, smiling, bursting with enthusiasm.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” I offered.
“That's what I've heard. I will.”
“Watch that ball right into your racket, like hitting a baseball, Samantha.”
“I will, Dell. Thank you.”
I can't help myself.
