Amygdala

A yoga mat is an island of peace in the stormy cauldron of anxiety that middle class life has always been. The gnawing certainty that most of the useless nonsense that modern Britain calls work is not really what we should be doing with our lives has to be kept at bay by something. And if that something is the distraction of wondering how that bloke get his legs to do that or pretending to mumble “Om Shanti”, then so be it.

At least someone with a kind face and a soothing voice is telling you that you just have to try, that it doesn’t matter if you can’t do lunging scabbard or thrashing kestrel, that it’s enough just to be distracted from the fervid babblings of your consciousness.

So it comes as a bit of a shock when the first thing you’re told as the instructor comes into the class (15 minutes after you got there) is to stop reading your magazine.

“You shouldn’t be reading that. You should lie down immediately and make the most of your time in the room.”

Hmm. In my last class, Kate said, “This is your practice. Listen to your own breath. If for you the most beneficial yoga practice is simply to lie down for an hour, then do that. That is what is best for you at this time.” I liked that. That seemed yoga.

And then.

“We don’t drink water in yoga.”

Wow. Now my instructor is forbidding me to do something, something really normal. That doesn’t seem very George Harrison. And anyway, W.T.F? I sweat like a roasting joint in yoga. If I can’t touch my sports bottle I’ll faint.

“You probably haven’t been told that by the others.”

No, I bloody well haven’t. Why shouldn’t I drink water anyway? It’s not Jagermeister. And what if it were?

“When you drink water, it stimulates your organs, which inhibits your ability to perform certain asanas and it puts out the inner fire that your are creating through your practice.”

Really? Really??

My island of peace has become the gun platform of a world-conquering death machine. As depleted uranium shells tear my instructor apart, and the hum of the gatling guns sings “Om, Om, Om,” I achieve a disturbing new form of karma. Also, I’ve Googled that rubbish and almost no-one says you can’t drink water during yoga. Some splinter cult of Ashtanga teachers made it up to show how few friends they have. It’s bollocks.

“I can see a few of you are already struggling with these easy moves. This is a flow class. You’re really supposed to know all the positions before you come to this session.”

Now that is full on. This person just told us we were rubbish and shouldn’t be here. This is an open class, which means anyone can come. Also, we paid to come. We’re not uninvited guests. And anyway, you are so not supposed to comment on people’s technique like that. In yoga that’s like saying the ‘C’ word. This instructor is not just an arsehole, not just a bad teacher but she is anti-yoga. Her prayer position is an act of aggression. Her humility is a lie. I think she’s a bit fat, frankly.

I feel my down-dogs wilting. Now I’m just in a crap PE class. I do this to feel mentally good; the exercise is just a path to that feeling. Now I’m just being told I’m rubbish. Of course I’m rubbish. I’m a white, middle-aged man trying to get rid of 30 years of flab and inflexibility. I thought I was getting a bit better. Oh, what’s the point. Afterwards I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger, onion rings and the macaroni cheese on the side. Good thing Byronburger is so close to the studio

Oh well, nearly over.

“There’s only a few minutes to go. You shouldn’t really leave like that. It’s very disruptive.”

One of the other girls needs to go just before we all lie down and relax in shavasana. This happens a lot. It’s a natural break and lots of people don’t see the point of lying down and relaxing. Those people are obviously a bit weird. Or they have to be somewhere.

“But I really need to leave, I’m very sorry.”

This girl seems really sweet, really meek.

Of course she’s sweet and meek. She’s in a yoga class for Christ’s sake.

And anyway, she wasn’t disruptive at all. If our guru hadn’t made such a fuss I’d never even have noticed. And her point was what? “RELAX! I SAID YOU HAVE TO STAY AND RELAX YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE GIRL, TAUNTING ME WITH YOUR YOUTH AND FLEXIBILITY. I ORDER YOU TO OBEY MY AUTHORITAY.” Yup. I think that was what was going on there.

Well, at least she’s consistent. Angry and dictatorial from start to finish. But hang on, what’s she saying now? I didn’t hear the first bit of the prayer but…

“Please keep me away from ego that gives me ideas that I am superior to others, or in any way that takes away my meekness and my humility. Give me natural humility, by which I can penetrate into the hearts of people. Om shanti.”

What? I mean truly W.T.F again. You’re fooling no-one here, lady. You are to natural humility what Long John Silver is to the 100 metres hurdles. I cannot believe you’ve got the nerve to pretend you’re all yoga after all. You know what, I’m going to complain. I can take the bullying, but the hypocrisy, that’s too much.

I go out to the main desk. I don’t even look at the offers on wheatgrass enemas and couscous smoothies. I want to make sure these people know there’s a traitor in their midst. But I can’t. The girl who took the bollocking for leaving early has thrown off the cowering mantle of her meekness and is grassing up the yoga Nazi in style.

For a moment I’m pleased. Yoga has made her assertive, stronger. But then I realise it’s a Pyrrhic victory. Yoga tells us to let things go; to love everyone. This girl has fallen into the yoga Nazi’s trap. She’s clung on to her anger; she’s tried to hurt someone else. And then I understand. Our guru is an agent from the material world. Every class she takes another pupil is drawn back to the dark side. She’s just a bitter woman who’s not getting laid trying to make us feel as bad about our lives as we should. And she’s winning.

God I need that burger.