Okay so a new name gets added to the surprisingly short list of people who will eventually/are trying to get me killed/do it themselves. It is my yoga instructor who will henceforth be referred to as SD and only SD in this blog (and that’s because past week’s experiences have kind of convinced me that taking/writing her name is a bad omen. This blog might just turn into the online version of Tom Riddle’s diary and suck me in to do unspeakably horrible things to me. Or worse, it might just add 10 extra pounds to my body, fail the entire exercise of making daily trips to the yoga classes, enduring the aforementioned yoga instructor and whatever it is that she does to people to no end. You get the drift right, what it might do? The name-taking, not the blog that is.)
For starters I think she is just one lab accident away from being a supervillain. No I don’t think so. I know for sure. She wears a purple yoga instructor’s uniform (whatever that is, don’t fact-check please) and if you haven’t been living under a rock for the past 10 years , then the very pointed reference to the color of her robe will clear all your doubts about what I meant when I said ‘supervillain’. She has long nails, long unsexy nails making her vise-like grip bring tears to your eyes (as it is you are two minutes away from openly weeping because your legs hurt as if they have been run over repeatedly by a bulldozer driven by a meth-addict driver). And to make things worse, she is blissfully oblivious to the fact the nails are hurting me. She grips my hands and goes “easy, easy, there it is, you’re doing great, now easy, easy, get this inside your head that it is not difficult, it is very easy…” while the only sentence with the word ‘easy’ in my head is ‘ how to find an easy way to kill this woman and make it look like an accident?’.
Then comes the early morning ritual where she tries to convince me that I am misguided and the leg exercises are important for me while all I do is tell her, not so politely and definitely not subtly that the leg exercises are designed to kill me. If I ever get to be the commander of a concentration camp where I can sit and devise new schemes to torture my least favorite people in the world, I am going to put leg exercises in the top five of the list of tortures. (I do not tell her that. I know better than to push all the buttons of a…well, whatever it is that she is.). But because my parents are paying a lot of money to these classes and their idea of fun is to watch their daughter getting taken apart daily by a pro (and one day I swear I feel it’s going to be literal.), I have to pretend that I am psyched about these exercises and play along. So every morning I have to undergo a period of excruciating pain while the woman keeps on assuring me that these exercises work like magic and very soon I will have be thin and gorgeous. (Yes assuming that I am still alive after the sessions. And she doesn’t really say ‘thin and gorgeous’. These words just don’t come out of her
forked tongue fanged mouth. All she says (and it doesn’t help) is ‘healthy and proper’ like my 50-something prissy old aunt. Two of a kind eh? )
Adding to an already difficult situation is the fact is that she is irony impaired. No I mean it. Her sense of humor is so bad that it can be the standard against which all badness is measured. So when I tell her jokingly that these exercises won’t come to any use because I have a feeling that I might not live through them, she purses her lips and tries really hard not to sulk or tell me off. (Also it wasn’t a joke. It was a statement made in such utmost seriousness that I can bet my life on it.) I guess she is a creature of habit- I mean if for twenty years if you have been teaching yoga to old, grumpy women in their mid-fifties with no discernible sense of humor and suddenly a
young and fat little jackass trying to be funny but really is in great deal of pain young woman in her twenties starts smiling and joking in class, it does throws you off balance a little bit, doesn’t it?
And in the end she chants some weird words when she puts me to sleep during shabashan (Yes the ashana where you finally get to sprawl down on the mattress spread-eagled and pant like a dog running the marathon and wonder whether your life has finally reached its inevitable end.) her.chant.is.so.CREEPY. She goes like “relax your toes, relax your muscles, relax your shoulders….” And drones on and on while I wonder if she is using some spell on me to just put an end to her daily morning ordeals of dealing with a slightly headstrong, a little spoilt, majorly sleepy and grumpy something I call ‘me’! J
Now, that I have given all of you a sneak peek into my little slice of hell, how about some suggestions as to how to
get rid of this woman without the needle of suspicion pointing at me get along with her? No, getting a new instructor is not an option (she seems to have made quite a name for herself as a yoga instructor and my mother specifically asked for her.) and getting her killed now will do no good to my waistline either. And the next person (after D) who calls me a complaining whiner and asks me to mellow down because I am the one who needs her and not the other way round is going to get dismembered. I need people on my team, not people to judge me and make me feel like a juvenile idiot. (That’s my mother’s job okay?).