Dear 20-something-hot-yoga instructor,

I get it.

In your world, time is meaningless. According to you, we are all just “here,” passengers simply observing and reflecting on the gifts of this Earth. 

You were 10 minutes late for class, which wouldn’t have been that big a deal, had I not observed you sitting outside the door in a bikini and a towel, perched on a stool like an effervescent hot yoga princess. I trust that you must have been late for a very good reason. You probably needed a few extra minutes (10, to be exact) to revitalize yourself with lemon water and bee pollen and a delicate mushroom broth. You probably just weren’t ready, so you took a few minutes for yourself before walking into my (very crowded and unbearably stinky, even before things got cooking) yoga class.

I get it. I feel you. I’m often not ready for things, too! We have so much in common. For example, I walked into my son’s last parent-teacher meeting and forgot to put clean pants on. I couldn’t recall the teacher’s first name. I forgot to put gas in the car. I couldn’t remember the last time I checked his communication book. But I still showed up, ON TIME, even though I could have most definitely used 10 extra minutes.

You seem to have this whole “time has no meaning in my life” thing going on. I get that, too. Except I think you secretly put effort into never appearing busy or rushed or anything other than completely satisfied in your present moment. You probably even walk in the middle of the sidewalk. I was afraid to wear a watch for the first few classes, because I remembered you told someone else not to look at their watch since it reflects a “being who shows little gratitude for the present temperament.”

Would you like to know what this temperamental being is grateful for? I’m grateful for hot yoga affording me the luxury of one hour of quiet time a week. I get to be silent in a warm room without anyone asking me questions like, “does Captain Hook wear a wig?” or “why don’t all babies come with moustaches?” Do you know what ruins this blessed experience for me? Being stressed out about YOU being late. You see, when you are 10 minutes late, the class ends at 8:10 pm instead of 8 pm. Those 10 extra minutes equate to my son’s bedtime being delayed. And a delay of 10 minutes equates to 30 minutes of extra “calm-the-fuck-down” time, meaning it’s about 9:30 before I even begin washing dishes or making lunches or prepping dinner for the next night or washing my make-up off or changing out of my disgusting yoga clothes.

Those 10 extra minutes you required meant I had to skip breastfeeding my 2-year old before she went to bed. Who’s the biggest hippie now? If you only knew this fact about my life, you might stop looking at me like an evil, non-organic potato. I’m positive you would suddenly think I’m super-cool and all, Namaste Mama and shit.

Let me explain the degree of stress your tardiness caused me, in terms you can understand: it would be almost as bad as your favourite health food store running out of Heart Tonic Dust or reishi or organic, cold-pressed cricket-liver oil. Almost.

I would also like you to be aware of the fact that I wore a watch to class yesterday. A giant, fandangled, 90s-era Swatch that ticks LOUDLY. And I frequently checked it, making sure you were watching me first, of course.

I know how much you like to protect the Savasana, aka the end of the class, where we all finally get to lie down. I know that you encourage everyone to “take as long as they need for their Savasana, and be mindful of other people when moving around” and that “the moon at this point in the month tells us our sacred purpose is to slow down.” I mean you no disrespect, but, I’m good. Thanks! You seem to be quite concerned about keeping a room full of strangers together, lying on the floor. For longer. 

I must be honest, I always make a point to be the first one out of the room, because you know what? I have actual things to do when the class actually ends, at 8 pm. Or 8:10 pm. Even when I try to be quiet, my yoga mat always sticks to the floor, and I usually step on someone’s hand, and I can never help but find a creaky patch of hardwood floor on my way out. 

I don’t like when you are late. Let’s make a promise: you show up on time, or at a minimum, three minutes earlier for each class, and I promise to no longer ruin your Savasana. I will also only check my Swatch, maximum, four times. And I may even remain lying down at the end of class for one extra minute, just for you. 

Do we have a deal?

 

About the author: Jennifer is a teacher and mother of two children. Her son was born with a rare genetic disease that has resulted in a variety of health conditions, two of which are a penchant for Dora and all things Thomas. She writes at Mother of Bones and can be followed on Twitter and Facebook.

Author

Wannabe's are Guest Authors to BLUNTmoms. They might be one-hit wonders, or share a variety of posts with us. They "may" share their names with you, or they might write as "anonymous" but either way, they are sharing their stories and their opinions on our site, and for that we are grateful.

2 Comments

  1. Pingback: I am funny! | Mother of Bones

  2. Very intense! And a little passive aggressive (with the watch, and all). If your instructor’s being late causes you to skip your bedtime breast feeding session, I highly suggest you find another studio. Why practice yoga with an instructor you hate?

Write A Comment

Pin It