Warning: Naughty language ahead!

Call me immature. Tell me I don’t get it.

Or maybe you’ll recognize a little bit of yourself here? I’m pretty sure no one’s perfect…

Let me give you a quick heads up: we all have those corrupted parts to our personality that have apparently gone down on our permanent record, no matter how many damn chaturangas we do.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Yoga likes it when we show up with certain character flaws to work on; otherwise, it would just be exercise.

I remember my first yoga class. It was a time, thanks to turning 30, the selling of my childhood home and an ensuing identity crisis, when I was going through a period you might characterize as, ”There-must-be-more-to-life-than-prowling-around-Hollywood-bartending-all-night-and-sleeping-all-day.”

That’s when I moseyed into a Saturday morning class at the gym.

It was the 90s, before social media. Before selfies and Luluheads. Before (hashtag) yoga.

The practice presented itself to me like a potion in a bottle with a “Drink Me” tag at a time when I was pretty thirsty for something, anything that would give me a sense of my place in this mad world. And resisting temptation was never my thing.

I don’t know what happened, except to say it’s 18 years later, and while it’s not like I’m typing this while in a handstand on my fingertips or anything, some things have definitely changed…and other things, not so much.

I still say the word “fuck” a ton. It’s awfully appropriate sometimes—and sometimes when it’s not, I use it anyway. All part of the fun.

I drink soda. Hey, it doesn’t mention anything about avoiding Tab in the Sutras, and fuck, that stuff still tastes as good as it did back in the day.

I eat meat. What do you expect? There’s a gourmet taco truck right outside the studio.

I blew off yoga this morning to curl up on the couch and watch a horror movie. Join me next time.

I love Trader Joe’s Cookie Butter, straight out of the jar. Yup. My husband calls me “sugar monster.” And FYI, I wouldn’t recommend actually licking it off the knife. Big mistake.

I may have had a few puffs of a Camel Light today. Fuck it, I’m not sorry.

I’ve never read The Bagavad Gita all the way through. Or The Fountainhead. It bores me. And I just don’t get it.

I didn’t have a bank account for like, four years at one point. Partly because for fear of the dreaded “man” looking over my shoulder, and partly…well, that was really the only reason.

I order Domino’s. Politics aside, it’s damn good pizza.

I still dress in all black. And yes, that was me blaring Depeche Mode when I rolled up to the studio this morning, in my black car with my black jacket on.

Here’s the truth: I know who I am. And I still show up to yoga.

I grew up, and became less confused about life. I became a good daughter, someone my parents were proud of. I don’t lie, act reckless, hitchhike, keep dirty secrets or stomp my feet when I don’t get my way.

But something’s got to keep me on the rightous path to freedom, and I’m sure ain’t gonna be the three carne asada tacos I ate off the food truck last night.

In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll wrote (as the voice of Alice), “I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.”

Change sucks. For me, some things might take a while, and I’m sure I have many lifetimes left to properly dispose of all the karmic garbage I’ve left behind.

Or less…I’ve also become a lot neater.

Relephant Read:

Yes, I’m a Serious Yogi, But I Still Do These 6 Things.

Author: Anne Clendening

Editor: Emily Bartran

Photo: YouTube Still