You gotta know when to fold ’em…

Once, years ago, in the beginning of our yoga time, my husband and I had a crazy, crazy substitute yoga teacher. That, in itself, was far from remarkable, since in those early early days, we were taking yoga at a gym which, with some exceptions, seemed to be a refuge for kooky super-70s yoga—you know, the leotard and long braids look, very Lilias.

Anyway, we were dismayed to find that, in addition to this super-crazy sub’s loopy vibe, she also had an unfortunately-placed hole in the crotch of her yoga tights.

I do not mean a certain worn-ness of the seam. I am talking about an actual gap, a void, a quarter-sized revelation. Distressing. Because no matter your penchants, something like that has its own gravity. Throughout the hour-long class, no matter what poses she was demonstrating, she never seemed to be aware of the extra air, but just carried on. Perhaps she did know and just played it off as well as possible, but we felt that she was just so out there, she didn’t care about flashing that bit of cootch, like life was just one extended everybody-naked-in-the-hot-tub.

Know when to walk away, know when to run…

Dear god, have I become her?

Sadly, there is a point in the life of every beloved pair of yoga pants when they just break down. The repeated wearings and repeated washings break those babies down after a while: they lose their hug, their ass-seams get thin. My man was good enough to tell me this about some LuluLemon pants a couple of years ago. I was mortified but grateful that he happened to mention it before I left the house (although I spent a good hour or so feeling a little queasy about the huge yoga workshop I’d been to the weekend before in those very pants, yes, like 250 people were there). I still have those pants, but don’t wear them for yoga—maybe just sometimes around the house, yard-work, no company, no forward bends.

~
Bonus: the Dharma is the underpants of my life:

The problem is that you can’t always tell about a pair of pants when you pull them from the drawer or dryer. It takes a prasarita [wide-legged forward straddle, illustrated above] to tell whether they’ve rounded the bend, and when you’re in a hurry, packing yoga stuff as you rush out the door for work, not always time to check the integrity of the pant-booty. My best friend Trixie and I have pinkie-sworn to tell each other, but honestly, then there’s the question of how and when—certainly not while assisting each other, maybe on the ride home when debriefing the class (ha ha ha)? It’s delicate.

Just to be on the safe side, I am retiring the blue Hard Tail pants I wore last night. They have been my favorites for a long time, but I am uncomfortably aware of their age and of my nether-regions lately when I wear them. I bid them adieu, and for safety, throw them in the rag pile to be cut up into squares that will dust the house or clean bikes. Anything to ensure that I not wear them out again.

I wish yoga pants lasted longer (particularly given their price), but sadly they appear to be as transitory as all other material things. Memories are a different matter, like the one I still carry of that sub and her so-sad tights.

So I’m retiring the porno pants and making favorites of other pairs, until they too hit that point of no return. I’d rather be remembered for other things, thanks.