That’s it people. I have sunk to an all time low. My namaste is depleted. I CURSED AT YOGA.
Who does that? A deplorable, foul-mouthed housewife that should be scarlet lettered and forbidden from ever going into warrior pose again, that’s who. Cursing while in yoga is equivilant to twerking in a purple lacy bra, matching polyester thong, and lucite platform heels during Monsignor O’Doherty’s Sunday homily.
Evidently, I said the four letter word, OUTLOUD during class. To my unjustifiable defense, I didn’t realize it. Hand to God. I was moving into a challenging pose and BLURTED out the “F” word. Loudly. Loud enough that my well mannered, sweet and beloved teacher, Lina, gently said “let’s keep the bad words to ourselves.” Yup. That’s right. It was THAT LOUD and THAT VILE that I had to be scolded by the kindest, coolest woman to walk the face of the earth. (Go ahead..scoff. I deserve it.)
I was somewhat confused. Surely, I couldn’t have said what I was thinking outloud. I mean, really, do I have any semblance of decorum left in me? Yes, I said the “F” word in my head, but did I say it with my mouth? Is the disconnect between my brain and my lips that extensive?
So when our flow reached downward dog, I asked Maria Jose if I had cursed. Maria Jose: Click Here (Sorry! Check out #7) WHYYYYYY???????? Why did I even bother to ask. Of course I did and of course it was a vociferous “F” bomb.
Apparently, catholic guilt, Cuban daughter guilt, and Dominican wife guilt is no longer enough. I can now add YOGA GUILT to my portfolio.
Yoga guilt is a different kind of wholesome self-condemnation. I feel guilt for having road rage on the way to class. Double up that guilt for listening to Rihanna while having road rage on the way to class. I have deep self-reproach for thinking about my grocery list as I do my sun salutations. Overwhelming shame consumes me as I lay in shavasana and scroll through my closet wondering what I am going to wear to lunch with my girlfriends. Being distracted by a chain of thoughts triggered by the horrific smell my lululemon mat emits while breathing fills me with grave remorse. And the worst of all…skipping class to watch Real Housewives. What kind of scumbag does that?
Unlike catholic/Cuban daughter/Dominican wife guilt, there is no confessional in yoga. Zero redemption. No place to go for absolution. It’s a done deal, case closed. I will carry the-lady-who-dropped-the-“F”-bomb-in-yoga stigma for the rest of my life. My chakras will never align and I will, most definitely, burn in some Bikram hell. (I am 40% sure that’s a thing or maybe I made it up. Either way, it’s a problem.) I am fairly certain there is a Guru in India requesting my immediate excommunication from ALL yoga classes EVERYWHERE ON PLANET EARTH, reaffirming his concern for my unabashed need to exploit and disgrace the practice and its discipline of mental and spiritual peace.
From the bottom of my heart, I profoundly apologize to the amazing Lina and my classmates in Saturday’s class. Yes, I said the “F” word. Mea Culpa, fellow yogis.
And although I am truly ridden with remorse and sheer embarrassment, I am pretty sure the possibility of another unintentional expletive in class is strong. So, if you place your mat next to mine, be forewarned that I am filled with runaway swear words. Namaste at your own f’ing risk! (insert wink!)