That’s it. I can’t take it any more. Yes, social media, I am a runner. No, social media, I do not love yoga. I do not like shirts with twisty straps. I do not believe there is a weather situation inside or outside in which one should wear pants and a bra top. Just because I have a messy bun and wear spandex everywhere I go does not mean I’m chomping at the bit to see another sucker doing Warrior 3 in her latest Fabletics™ by Kate Hudson shipment.
Look, I barely have time to squeeze in not-enough running and I don’t even know where my foam roller rolled off to after I touched it about nine months ago. I don’t remember my last shower, but now I’m supposed to find room in my heart for yoga? Sorry, I don’t have time for anything that requires me to maintain a “practice” unless I’m getting paid.
How has yoga infiltrated running so deeply? Is it some Lululemon conspiracy to keep us wearing that ugly lavender chalk color? To sell us sports bras that don’t even support my tiny boobs during a run? I’m old enough and have had enough kids now to know gray spandex is the devil’s cloth, so why do people keep buying it? You know, I bet if you look deeper than Instagram, you’d see that runners don’t actually love yoga, they’ve just accepted it into their athletic lives because it’s all around us, bludgeoning us with a more “feminine” version of fitness and adding meaningless meaning to … stretching.
You know why I hate yoga the most though? Yoga is boring as shit. Even yoga-lovers know it’s boring. Why else would they keep inventing stupid yoga variations if they weren’t bored to tears pretentiously stretching at room temperature? Hot yoga, cold yoga, competitive yoga, drunk yoga, high yoga, yoga on a mountain, yoga on a beach, yoga in the grocery store, yoga in my face everywhere I freaking go.
And don’t get me started on yoga studios. If I wanted to lay around purportedly relaxing in the dark for an hour I don’t need to pay $35 to do it with a bunch of pretentious people in expensive anti-stink fabrics bandying Sanskrit-sounding crap through trickly tinkly sounds coming from a speaker hiding behind a candle and a Bonsai tree. I can actually relax for free without the cedar-scented miscellany when I engage in my favorite unpaid practice: napping.
“Oh, but yoga teaches you to connect breath to movement!” you cry plaintively. Save it, sister. When you move your lungs will breathe. Trust me. Your brain stem does all the heavy lifting here, and you don’t even need to think real hard about it. Just go with the flow like you’re used to, sheeple.
Sure, some people are really into yoga. That’s cool. I get that those really-into-yoga people know a ton about yoga: all the different varieties; intense poses; best practices; and on and on. But it seems to me like most of the people who wear twisty shirts and pose for photos on Instagram are not practicing some sacred ritual, they’re fancy stretching. Fancy stretching is still stretching no matter how thick the incense cloud is that surrounds you.
Anyway, back to those runners on Instagram who just can’t help but tell us how much they loooooooooove yoga. You know why I think so many runners on social media love yoga? Because it comes with poses, which makes life so much easier. I mean seriously. How many times can one runner prop her phone against a fence as she runs by pretending she’s not staging a photo? I get it, you’re sick of the old guys walking their dogs looking at you funny and yoga comes complete with different poses to mix up your feed. I can kinda see the appeal of posting a photo of yourself doing your downward dog or dead crow or crouching tiger or whatever because, I’ll admit, it’s a lot easier to get one of those artsy shots with the exposed brick in the background doing yoga than running. But, even so, I still f’ing hate it.