I F*cking Hate Yoga. There, I Said It.

Dear friends, family, stranger in the waiting room, and gym trainer whose opinion I didn’t ask for:

Look, I know you mean well. You have my best interests at heart. You hear me complaining about stress and anxiety, bitching about my burgeoning belly pooch and lower-back pain, and you want to help. You want me to feel better, or maybe you’re just sick of listening to me complain. Either way, you offer suggestions. You give advice. You say things like, “You know what would help?” and “You should really try….”

And while all this advice is well-intentioned — and you’re probably even right — you have got to STFU. Because if you don’t stop telling me to do yoga, my kundalini is going to explode, and I’m going to kick your vinyasa-loving sacrum.

Listen, I’ve tried it. I hate it. So please stop telling me yoga will solve every problem and fix allthethings.

Sure, I have approximately 17 pairs of yoga pants. And no, they do not need to be used for yoga. They can be worn for leaping over Lego towers in the middle of the family room and stealthily crawling out of a toddler’s room after they finally fall asleep. Also? It’s scientifically proven that yoga pants, LuLaRoe leggings, or any stretchy paints with an elastic waistband, for that matter, make you 2 inches taller and 10 pounds thinner. #AlternativeFacts

I know, I know, I just haven’t tried the right class. I haven’t found the right instructor. I haven’t found the right type of yoga. These days, there’s a yoga flavor to satisfy every taste. There’s breastfeeding-mom yoga, beer yoga, and even goat yoga. Yep, goat yoga. With a 900-person waiting list. Because every wannabe hippie mom needs to do the warrior pose while a cute baby goat crawls between her chakra. Nope. No thank you. You can keep your cute chakra-titillating goats and your yoga.

I’ll also pass on the Bikram yoga and its hotter-than-a-dumpster-fire, crowded-as-hell studio. Night sweats are bad enough. I don’t need to smell the stink of 50 sweating strangers with my knee behind my head, thankyouverymuch.

Everywhere I look someone is telling me that yoga is the answer to everything. My husband tells me the pigeon pose will fix my achy hip. My BFF tell me yogalates will give me the muscle tone of a 22-year-old swimsuit model. The stranger in the waiting room tells me yoga will help me pretend the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.

Thank you for all your advice, folks, but please. You have got to STFU about yoga.

I know #yogaislife. I know it’s great for stress-relief, flexibility, and muscle tone. I know sun salutations will cleanse my chakras and balance my aura. Some hippie professor even told my editor about the ansana-induced afterglow that can rival an orgasm. (Ummm…no thanks?) You tell me the slow breathing will take me to another astral plane where my dharma will be cleansed. Or maybe I’ll just gain a little flexibility and muscle tone while de-stressing at the end of a long day of tantrum-quashing.

All of that just might be true, but you know what? IDGAF. I’d much rather pound my stress and rage out with a slow slog of a run/walk with sweat dripping down my face, or peruse my Us Weekly and watch The View while I spin to nowhere on the elliptical machine. You do you. I’ll do me, mkay?

I get it. Yoga is the answer to everything. I appreciate your kundalini-glittered advice. But, seriously, if you tell me to do yoga one more time, my chaturanga is going to explode all up in your shavasana.