Nurse the Hate: Hate Winter Yoga Camping

The flier sat on the counter like a warning.  “Yoga Winter Camping Trip”  Even mouthing the words silently to himself sent a shiver down his spine.  It combined the two worst things he could think of in winter and camping.  At least in the summer camping would feature a brief pleasant window of sitting by a fire and staring at the stars in moderate temperatures.  For a few hours the opportunity presented itself to forget you would soon be sleeping on rocks while being ripped apart by disease ridden insects.  But winter camping and yoga?  The thought of “downward facing dog” while nosing into wet leaves and snow was like something the KGB would construct to break the will of political enemies of The State.

He had developed distaste for yoga that was deeply personal.  In theory he should like it.  The taut women possessively clutching their yoga mats and holding their Starbucks cups like urban batons oozed with purpose.  Young skin slightly flushed pink.  Light brown hair pushed back with Nike logoed headbands.  Swift steps towards whatever essentially meaningless appointment they had chirping reminders set for in their smarter than your phone.  It was a cult of self-righteousness he had only been allowed to see the lobby of, unable to prove his worth for admittance.

His previous girlfriend was fresh from a split from her husband.  The cause of the split was murky and ever changing.  In the end she offered up that he “hadn’t supported my yoga”.  He had never built up the courage to ask how one doesn’t support yoga.  Did that infer that when she announced she was leaving for yoga class he had said things like “That’s a God Damn waste of time!”?  Did he hide her yoga mat, or smear dog shit on it to prevent her from striking poses?  It gnawed at him, but he dared not bring the subject up for fear of being lumped in with the ever growing gaggle of outsiders she kept track of that “didn’t support her yoga”.  He actively avoided doing anything that would place him on The List.

She began taking classes from other yoga “experts”.  A lot of crazy hocus pocus shit.  She fell in with some wacky Indian lady priestess (that later was revealed to be a Guatemalan former maid) that convinced her followers of the healing properties of yoga.  Touch your foot here and heal your back there.  Sit in this pose while facing towards the moon to clear your skin.  Then it picked up speed.  The group had been convinced they could heal with their hands, like some sort of New Age Witches.  The Girlfriend began to speak to him like he was a child, the information she was gathering well out of his sphere of understanding.  She had been given access to great secrets while he was little more than a caveman.  He bit his tongue to not remind her of her glorious flame out at the local community college years earlier while he could prove a college degree if he went into the attic and went through a few boxes. 

It was at this point a transformation occurred.  She thought of herself as possessing great power.  It was an odd combination of yoga terminology, Eastern mysticism, reflexology, and more than just a bit of “The Force” from Star Wars.  She hinted at some sort of “dark power” she could access, and whoa be to those that dared to cross her.  The answer to every problem he encountered could be solved with yoga.  Can’t sleep?  Yoga.  Hangover?  Yoga.  Broken fan belt?  Yoga.  Holy Christ Almighty.  He understood what had broken the ex-husband.  She began to demand that he chant while holding specific yoga poses to heal his headache.  “Jesus… can’t you just hand me the aspirin like I asked?”  That’s when it happened.  He was “not supporting her yoga”.  There was no going back.  Within weeks she had moved out telling murky stories about the derailed relationship while simultaneously taking the moral high ground afforded by her new found understanding of The Universe.

So now this.  The flier stared at him from the counter.  He walked back from it slowly, like it was a snake.  Somewhere in the woods, in the falling snow, in the wind, a small group would be doing headstands shivering in their tights.  A skinny man with a beard that could be mistaken for Russell Brand would sit cross legged by the fire offering some mashed vegan delight to the group.  They would feel the strength of the collective.  Then they would smoke pounds of marijuana, that being OK as it was “an organic strain”.  They would earnestly chant afterwards, and then after retiring to their wigwams the Russell Brand guy would make long tantric love to his ex-girlfriend with what was sure to be an enormous cock.   It was OK though.  He never really supported her yoga anyway.