YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #26 "RESTRAINT"
I feel that after almost two years of yoga at the same center and with many of the same members and under the same instructors, it's time to commend myself for showing an inordinate amount of restraint at not writing about yoga and especially my fellow yoga practitioners with the same kind of biting and often I suppose malice that I did about the gym and its members when I exposed them on my blog with an ongoing by-line called “A View From the Stationery Bike,” which resulted in my termination, or I should say, my quitting under pressure from a self-righteous matriarchy.
I'm still smarting from this termination, feeling that there was no reason why a bunch of middle-aged very prudish and outraged women should feel aggrieved and threatened when in ten articles many of the male members received my general sarcasm for vanity, stupidity, hypochondria, insufferably boring and drawn out explanations of domestic projects as well as description of cruises and vacations and other mindless retiree drivel, and there were no complaints from these fossils, most of whom found humor and never felt threatened or personally attacked as some of these women did, calling themselves victims of my lascivious nature.
Also, I was coaxed by my riding partner, Walt, a fountain of juicy gossip about everybody in the gym, and whose facade as a harmless eccentric shrouded his cynicism and snide remarks and propensity to make fun of people just because it helped us pass time on the boring, strenuous business of stationary bike riding, which most of our fellow gym goers withstood by listening to music on headphones, while Walt and I had a veritable ball pointing out and commenting on anybody who walked past us, as well as drawing to us a passel of regulars who confided in us, having no idea I was secretly taking notes on my crossword puzzle.
In fact, poor old Walt didn't realize I was writing about HIM until the week before I was outed, and quickly ousted. He was proud to be in my pieces.
Anyway, soon as I started yoga, I made a pact with myself not to write with malicious mischief about fellow yoga peers, feeling that if I was found out I would be eventually blacklisted from all gyms and yoga studios and have nowhere to go for these services as well as the social milieu which provides such succulent writing material.
Oh, there's plenty of snark to write about at the yoga studio, make no mistake, but so far I have refrained, having learned my lesson from the gym. Though I do feel that if any of my new peers find out about my copious pieces on my blog they will not feel singled out, aggrieved, embarrassed or crucified one little bit as those at the gym felt. I feel these yoga people, so dedicated to living a healthy life physically and spiritually, and having tender hearts and sensitivity, are the kind of people who might possess the capacity to laugh at themselves and see goodness beneath the subterfuge of cynicism.
Yet one never knows. So I have taken no chances in insulting people who have been nothing but nice to me and possibly do not suspect the kind of turmoil and insurrection I can create. And make no mistake, I do have ammunition. There is always a lot of conversation during the lead up to class, and I am not above eaves dropping. I do my share of observing, though I have to do it in a furtive manner of glancing or peeking, and mostly I am disappointed in the blandness and well meaning of conversations, and the refusal to enter into controversy and negativity, on which I have commented.
I believe I have previously written about my peers raving about the wonderful weather, and opined that I was not enamored with constant heat and sunshine and preferred fog, and plenty of it, which possibly perks up their antennae about the darkness swirling around in my brain. Unlike in the gym, also, there is no Walt to agitate me, to fill me with juicy personal tidbits about every member, and I see no way I can find out much about these people without a salacious character like Walt around, and, since I am sort of a late comer and outcast, it's doubtful anybody will confide in me the kind of material I prefer to write about.
Also, I have refrained from talking about myself, unless it is to inform anybody who cares to hear it about my bad shoulder, hip, knee and whatever plagues me at the time, definitely a good subject to detract anybody from suspecting I am writing about yoga, or yoga practitioners, or that I am a writer at all, and especially the kind of writer who writes about people who have no idea I am a writer who will write about anybody who cares to divulge anything to, and will write it in a manner that creates tumult and unhappiness and perhaps virulent anger and outrage and vindictiveness and ultimate revenge.
I do NOT want to do this to my yoga peers. But the temptation to become more personally involved WITH them and to learn about their quirks and idiosyncrasies and hypocritical traits and general foolishness and writing about it is almost unavoidable and often excruciating and averse to all that gives me reason and meaning to live this absurd existence! Nothing torments me more than viewing and listening to these wonderful folks and being unable to penetrate their psyches and going straight home to mock them on the typewriter, which is like sustenance to me, as good as food and booze.
But, if I know whats good for me, and my own health and peace of mind, I have to lie low, remain unattached to the social aspect of yoga life, a fringe character wishing to get in for all the wrong reasons and begrudging himself the experience of “making friends and becoming part of things.” For I will not be able to resist ripping into the human aspects of these gentle, kind people, though I wonder if they are all really this way, that there are scars and darkness and even volatility beneath the serene exteriors...
So I have shown, to me, tremendous restraint, and it has paid off, and I have used my subterfuge as an ex bonehead jock to distract many of these people who are artistic or artists from suspecting I am also a KIND of artist in my own right. And I have gone out of my way to be as gracious and magnanimous as my peers, so as to fit in.
As an example, the other day, as Reggie conducted his class, a young girl arrived late, and rolled her mat out beside me, and Reggie said, “welcome to Dell's cabana.”
I nodded to her, and she smiled, and later, when Reggie suggested we use blocks, and the girl began to rise to secure some, I handed her mine and walked over to get new ones for myself. Reggie praised my gallantry, and, after class, as I rolled up my mat, this young girl thanked me again and cupped her hands at her chest and bowed to me as if I was some kind of esteemed Indian guru.
I was shocked by this reverence and later spanked myself for my insistent cynicism and reminded myself to keep writing about yoga as kindly as I have.
For now, anyway.
I'm still smarting from this termination, feeling that there was no reason why a bunch of middle-aged very prudish and outraged women should feel aggrieved and threatened when in ten articles many of the male members received my general sarcasm for vanity, stupidity, hypochondria, insufferably boring and drawn out explanations of domestic projects as well as description of cruises and vacations and other mindless retiree drivel, and there were no complaints from these fossils, most of whom found humor and never felt threatened or personally attacked as some of these women did, calling themselves victims of my lascivious nature.
Also, I was coaxed by my riding partner, Walt, a fountain of juicy gossip about everybody in the gym, and whose facade as a harmless eccentric shrouded his cynicism and snide remarks and propensity to make fun of people just because it helped us pass time on the boring, strenuous business of stationary bike riding, which most of our fellow gym goers withstood by listening to music on headphones, while Walt and I had a veritable ball pointing out and commenting on anybody who walked past us, as well as drawing to us a passel of regulars who confided in us, having no idea I was secretly taking notes on my crossword puzzle.
In fact, poor old Walt didn't realize I was writing about HIM until the week before I was outed, and quickly ousted. He was proud to be in my pieces.
Anyway, soon as I started yoga, I made a pact with myself not to write with malicious mischief about fellow yoga peers, feeling that if I was found out I would be eventually blacklisted from all gyms and yoga studios and have nowhere to go for these services as well as the social milieu which provides such succulent writing material.
Oh, there's plenty of snark to write about at the yoga studio, make no mistake, but so far I have refrained, having learned my lesson from the gym. Though I do feel that if any of my new peers find out about my copious pieces on my blog they will not feel singled out, aggrieved, embarrassed or crucified one little bit as those at the gym felt. I feel these yoga people, so dedicated to living a healthy life physically and spiritually, and having tender hearts and sensitivity, are the kind of people who might possess the capacity to laugh at themselves and see goodness beneath the subterfuge of cynicism.
Yet one never knows. So I have taken no chances in insulting people who have been nothing but nice to me and possibly do not suspect the kind of turmoil and insurrection I can create. And make no mistake, I do have ammunition. There is always a lot of conversation during the lead up to class, and I am not above eaves dropping. I do my share of observing, though I have to do it in a furtive manner of glancing or peeking, and mostly I am disappointed in the blandness and well meaning of conversations, and the refusal to enter into controversy and negativity, on which I have commented.
I believe I have previously written about my peers raving about the wonderful weather, and opined that I was not enamored with constant heat and sunshine and preferred fog, and plenty of it, which possibly perks up their antennae about the darkness swirling around in my brain. Unlike in the gym, also, there is no Walt to agitate me, to fill me with juicy personal tidbits about every member, and I see no way I can find out much about these people without a salacious character like Walt around, and, since I am sort of a late comer and outcast, it's doubtful anybody will confide in me the kind of material I prefer to write about.
Also, I have refrained from talking about myself, unless it is to inform anybody who cares to hear it about my bad shoulder, hip, knee and whatever plagues me at the time, definitely a good subject to detract anybody from suspecting I am writing about yoga, or yoga practitioners, or that I am a writer at all, and especially the kind of writer who writes about people who have no idea I am a writer who will write about anybody who cares to divulge anything to, and will write it in a manner that creates tumult and unhappiness and perhaps virulent anger and outrage and vindictiveness and ultimate revenge.
I do NOT want to do this to my yoga peers. But the temptation to become more personally involved WITH them and to learn about their quirks and idiosyncrasies and hypocritical traits and general foolishness and writing about it is almost unavoidable and often excruciating and averse to all that gives me reason and meaning to live this absurd existence! Nothing torments me more than viewing and listening to these wonderful folks and being unable to penetrate their psyches and going straight home to mock them on the typewriter, which is like sustenance to me, as good as food and booze.
But, if I know whats good for me, and my own health and peace of mind, I have to lie low, remain unattached to the social aspect of yoga life, a fringe character wishing to get in for all the wrong reasons and begrudging himself the experience of “making friends and becoming part of things.” For I will not be able to resist ripping into the human aspects of these gentle, kind people, though I wonder if they are all really this way, that there are scars and darkness and even volatility beneath the serene exteriors...
So I have shown, to me, tremendous restraint, and it has paid off, and I have used my subterfuge as an ex bonehead jock to distract many of these people who are artistic or artists from suspecting I am also a KIND of artist in my own right. And I have gone out of my way to be as gracious and magnanimous as my peers, so as to fit in.
As an example, the other day, as Reggie conducted his class, a young girl arrived late, and rolled her mat out beside me, and Reggie said, “welcome to Dell's cabana.”
I nodded to her, and she smiled, and later, when Reggie suggested we use blocks, and the girl began to rise to secure some, I handed her mine and walked over to get new ones for myself. Reggie praised my gallantry, and, after class, as I rolled up my mat, this young girl thanked me again and cupped her hands at her chest and bowed to me as if I was some kind of esteemed Indian guru.
I was shocked by this reverence and later spanked myself for my insistent cynicism and reminded myself to keep writing about yoga as kindly as I have.
For now, anyway.
