A yoga love story that ends badly.

I spot a Pilates student bouncing toward me on the other side of the glass door. She is energetic, her cheeks red, and smiling. I recoil my hand from the door handle. She knocks it open with all of her body weight.

“Oh, you’re going to Yin. Aren’t you?” she says.

Gulp. “Yes,” I say.

“Oh my god, I love Yin. It’s so relaxing. Have a great class,” she says, feet planted, not walking away.

“Thanks.” I rush inside.

The dense heated air smells of sweat and lavender. I inhale through my nose. What can I release? I think. My favorite instructor says this phrase often during her Restorative Yin teachings. It’s become my life mantra. The yoga studio’s warmth intensifies as I near the heated studio. Tranquility calls to me. I hurry past the social butterflies clogging up the shoe and coat rack area with their bodies and loud voices. Head down, I don’t make eye contact, and walk directly into the locker room–it’s empty. “Phew.”

I prepare for Yin Restoration to heal the chaos and confusion life fills my brain with. I yearn for the quiet of meditation–a remedy utterly opposite from what I medicated myself with most of my life–an exercise addiction and not enough food. My body hurts too bad. Now, I’m addicted to stillness. I don’t get it often because, you know, my brain. But I force it into my healing journey as frequently as I can.

I found Yin Restorative Yoga. This was it–the perfect treatment for all of my ailments. Trauma? Yin. Anger? Yin. Depression? Yin. Anxiety? Yin. Yes, please.

I’ve arrived fifteen minutes early. Eager to land my favorite spot in the darkest corner, I push open the metal door. One hundred and four degrees and forty percent humidity kisses me on the cheek. I love you, Yoga, I think. Someone is ahead of me and has taken the corner. Damn. I glide silently across the marbled floor to the opposite corner. The click of the metal door closing behind me echoes through the room–the only announcement of my stealthy and silent presence. The co-member is meditating in child’s pose. I flinch at the door’s loud closure. “Sorry,” I whisper

I unwrap my mat with the utmost care to be quiet. I lay it on the floor without making a noise. I retrieve my blocks from my cloth yoga bag and set them down without making a peep. I sit on my sitz bones and roll onto my back. I close my eyes, breathe in slowly, and pull my arms up to cactus, readying my pointer fingers to plug my ears.

The door opens; I press my pointer finger against the tragus of each ear, the flap in front of my earhole, and plug my ears. Over the noise of my breathing, heartbeat, and even with plugged ears, I hear the metal door click closed. The newly entered student finds a spot too close to me and drops her yoga mat with a slap against the stone floor. She lets out a humming exhale and situates her metal, Hydro, Stanley, Yeti, mega water flask with an unmistakable clang against the floor. Her bare feet pat the floor to the prop location and she retrieves two blocks, a bolster, and a towel. Her movements are abrupt and make noise. I open my eyes.

Oh no–the humming exhaler lady has perched right next to me. This is her signature way of exhaling throughout the entire class. Instead of natural, effortless breathing, she engages her vocal cords and abdomen every goddamned time. “Hmmmmm,” I hear. I sit up, collect my belongings, and move to the other side of the room; my silent setup routine is repeated, and I’m on my back.

Outside the studio, laughter and loud voices filter through the stone walls. One of the participants in said noise enters the studio, but not before her conversation is over–she holds the door open hesitant to enter because she is still talking loudly to the group outside. Fucking rude.

The rest of the class attendees filter in. My arms, perched in cactus, keep my ears closed, and I attempt to seek stillness. The metal clicking of the door echoes through my skull a total of twenty-seven times before class starts. And since class has about half that number in students, these assholes are ignorant to the few trying to meditate and come and go multiple times. Oh great, the Won’t Shut Up Couple is here today. A man and a woman lying on their backs having an illegal yoga studio conversation. (All conversations in the yoga studio are illegal and deserve severe penalties.)

I hear the teacher’s voice through my plugged ears. Finally, I think. I pull my fingers out of my ears and remove my arms from cactus shape. I listen to her words and embrace her calm teachings with love and respect. My mind stills. My chest heavies with comfort, and the heat saturates my core. Thank you.

Our instructor directs us into a twist with the right leg stretched over the left. Clang! A metal water bottle is kicked. “Fuck,” I whisper, and my body jumps to attention. You’re not going to fucking die of dehydration in a one–hour heated yin class. Do you really need that damn thing? Put it on its side on a freaking towel if you must.

I attempt to regain the lost tranquility. What can I release?

Happy baby is our next shape. We are on our backs, feet in hands, knees pressed to the floor, and crotches airing out. It quickly becomes apparent that the dirty crotch lady is in attendance. Fuck. You’ve got to be kidding me. I pull my shirt up over my nose.

A late arrival. The door opens, and a waft of cool air brushes my body. The sound of jingling keys strolls across the room to an open space, and the metal door clangs shut behind her. Twenty-eight. I open my eyes, appalled at the noise, and see a purse strapped over her shoulder bouncing off her hip with a keychain clipped to the outside. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Not only is her noise offensive but now I’m thinking of Christmas. The jingling keys remind me that Christmas is only eight months away and I haven’t started shopping. Christmas carols blasting out of speakers in a crowded store flood my mind’s eye. What can I release?

It takes me a few deep breaths and slow, silent exhales to recover. I find stillness. My body melts to the floor with relaxation, and I am nearly falling asleep. “Haaaaassssss, ssssssaaaaaa, haaaaaaaaaas.” I jump. Fucking, Parceltongue Patricia is provoking the Slytherin demons. My nostrils flair, and my eyes dart back and forth behind my eyelids. Patricia continues this deliberate initiation of her vocal cords and oral muscles. I’m disgusted.

Oh hell. Heavy Breather Hank is here. “HHHHHaaaaaaaHH.” I never knew the letter H could be articulated with such a hard hit the way he does. His breathing starts with a loud and sudden hard “HHHHH carries on with “aaaaa,” and ends “HH” as loud and abruptly as it began, on repeat. I can’t decide if Hank is the guy on the phone trying to harass me with his heavy breathing sexually, or is he straight out of a horror film? With all of this intentional breathing noise, a sound recording of this class could be misunderstood as an orgy. All we need now is the gassy guy and the stinky smoker woman then it might smell like an orgy too.

I love you, yoga. But why does everything I love and promises to love me back hurt me? I might have to break up with you, yoga. I can’t; I love you too much. Can we compromise?

Can I pick who I attend a yoga class with? Can classes list who’s signed up with names as they’re known, like Gassy Guy, Dirty Crotch Lady, Stinky Smoker Woman, Won’t ShutUp Couple, or Humming Exhaler? I’d know not to bother. My least favorites are Parceltongue Patricia, Humming Exhaler, & Gassy Guy. What is my nickname? I hope Silent and Considerate Sally. Na, my behavior is judged as bitchy. I’m likely known as Stuck Up Tina.

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Wikipedia describes yoga: Yoga is a group of physical, mental, and spiritual practices or disciplines that originated in ancient India and aim to control and still the mind, recognizing a detached witness-consciousness untouched by the mind and mundane suffering.

Mundane suffering? Yup, that’s me. I suffer badly from humanity’s stupid, mundane behaviors. There may be a higher level of Yoga teachings that would elevate me to a place where I do not even notice the inconsiderate actions of others in the studio.

I’m at a moment in my life where the past culmination of agony (what I’m calling trauma today) can only be remedied with an embodiment of quiet within. Stillness. Along with a visit to my doctor, an upping of my meds, an additional sleep aid, massage, and yoga.

Imagine a glass vessel filled with the negative vibrating energy of love, pain, hate, anger, sadness, frustration, fear, fatigue, loss, disappointment, hunger, regret, distrust, and heartbreak–all the words. This glass vessel will shatter into a zillion pieces if not soothed. So here I come, this glass vessel, to the only studio heated to 104 degrees with 40% humidity nearby. The studio floor is gorgeous and sturdy, with black and white checkered marble lined with brick and limestone. I come here to soothe and mend my pieces before they shatter.

My class of choice is Yin Restorative. We aim to spend an hour breathing and meditating in a quiet community with our bodies draped in various restorative postures for two, three, and sometimes four minutes. I close my eyes, my body wrapped in heat, and soak in the comforting words of my instructor like she is the nurturing and protective mother I so desperately need. Enter: “Other people.”

I crave the camaraderie of others who need this same sense of yogi-wisdom to feel whole and mindful but won’t talk to me and will follow the damn rules. Yoga etiquette is a thing. It should be reminded daily, before and after every class, and posted for all to see. I long for a class where my passive-aggressive side stops huffing, plugging my ears, rolling my eyes, or leaving. My body language fails to teach others how to be present in this shared space mindfully. Many people aren’t empathetic enough to know this obvious secondary language, after all.

Can we all please adopt these yoga rules from here on out? Let’s call it Yoga 101–A list of ten simple rules to reach Zen during a Yoga class.

Rule #1: Shut the hell up.

Rule #2: Don’t be a dumbass.

Rule #3: Gassy? Stay home.

Rule #4: Don’t stink. The room is 104 degrees. If you’re dirty, it will be like cooking shit on an actual shingle.

Rule #5: Leave your metal, hydro, yeti, stanley, and super-flask in your bag. You won’t die.

Rule #6: Put your keys in your bag and leave your bag out of the yoga studio.

Rule #7: Don’t breathe like a psychopath.

Rule #8: Breathe normally. Making noise when you breathe intentionally engages muscles, brain activity, and anxiety in those around you. Also, all you’re doing is showing us how you sound when you’re having sex.

Rule #9: Make all doors entering the yoga studio quiet and click free.

Rule #10: Stop being a self-absorbed prick unaware of your loud, smelly, and abrupt impact on those around you.

Yours Truly, Tina Hendricks