It’s September, which means I’m thinking about “What to wear to a yoga conference”—and that happened to be the most hated blog I ever wrote for the elephant journal.
Last year, after receiving personal threats (sadly, I am not making this stuff up) I went to Yoga Journal’s Colorado Conference for a book signing and to assist several way-more-famous yogis. But, I was a little afraid of the non-violent, non-judgmental, peaceful yogis who said I was a bad person because I wanted to wear a pretty yoga outfit.
This year I am not taking chances, because there is nothing like a roiling discussion about Luon to upset the yoga crowd. So I’m bringing some muscle.
Have you seen Waylon Lewis?
He is my muscle—and frankly you can usually find Waylon sharing green drinks with Seane, Shiva, Alanna, Amy, Ana or Richard. Or, Waylon could be dancing wildly on a stage—he does that frequently at yoga conferences.
So, I’ll be on my own. But you know what I say; “Help is not on the way.” Maybe I could pray? My personal favorite is: “Hail Mary, full of grace, please don’t let me fall on my face.” That sometimes works for handstand.
If you don’t believe in this kind of religion, then you can hug a tree, or a Wiccan. (There’s nothing wrong with hugging a Wiccan, so please don’t write in to say you want me to die.)
So why is everyone mad at me? I think the ex-Miss America, Teresa Scanlan put it best:
Yes it does. Because get ready, this is the unyogic part: I am pretty cute.
I happen to be a descendent of my grandmother who always matched her shoes to her bag. At 97 years old, she drove a bright red car that complemented her lipstick, and wore the world’s largest sunglasses.
I inherited the fabulous gene—I wear bright colors and matchy outfits. I carry a way cute bag.
My husband has seen me with my guts spread out on an operating room table, but he has never seen me without a pedicure. If you compliment my pincha mayurasana, I’ll be grateful, but if you ask where I got my pants I’ll be over the moon.
Therefore, many people have decided that I am unyogic and not funny, which is ridiculous because I am very funny.
Now read this part: It does not matter what you wear to practice yoga.
This is more important: Do you speak the truth? Do you try not to cause harm? Do you make the world a better place? Do you help others to be their best selves? Do you grow from your mistakes? Do you live a life of service? Do you write anonymous nasty notes to other yogis accusing them of ridonculous things? Because that last one might be a problem.
While these are the qualities of a yogi, there is nothing in the yoga sutras that says you can’t be cute.
Therefore, my reaction to the uber-yogic yogis is to be more fabulous.
This year, what I’m wearing to a yoga conference will include bright red pants by Kiragrace.—it’s going to be great.
Now where on earth is Waylon when you need him?
I better go check the juice bar.
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Ed: Bryonie Wise
hot on elephant
July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. A Letter to my Children: You do not come from a Broken Home. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. Mom, can I Call her Mom, Too? How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. Jon Stewart makes first appearance since retiring—”it’s not your country.”