Um, yeah. I think that last post is evidence that the PMS fairy has been putting her foot in my back and shoving me off the wrong side of the bed these past couple of days. It was only this morning that it finally occurred to me that PMS was the culprit when I sat stewing in my yoga class over something this little gem uttered by the instructor:
“Now bend back, fall back everyone. This will help with the back pain we in the West experience too often.”
Now, keep in mind that I – a grown woman endowed with some semblance of a brain AND free will – have been doing yoga for a few years now. I have been exposed to the kooky philosophies of several of its practitioners. I willingly participate alongside many people who believe that crystals, incense and sage are perfectly acceptable alternatives to western medical practices which, by the way, are borne of the Devil. Or Krishna. Or Pele. Or whatever deity you choose to invoke so long as they agree that western medicine is an evil scourge that makes babies cry because the yoga world is filled with Unitarians.
Normally I would have blown off the instructor’s comment and continued meditating upon the gallons of sweat my yoga mat had absorbed. For some reason however, this morning it bugged the crap out of me so I spent the rest of the class with this in my head:
The back pain we in the West experience? Pssssshaw. Like back pain is a uniquely western problem. As if there isn’t some overworked Toshiba exec slaving over his desk in Tokyo and wondering why his lumbar region is singing Ave Maria to him. And don’t even get me started on what’s going on in Thailand with those places where people sit in the dirt and break big rocks into little ones. Oh I’ve seen them on infomercials! Like the ones where Sally Struthers wears some reptile-skin boots while begging for their lives. Are you going to try to tell me those people aren’t feeling the effects of rock-breaking in the ol’ C-5? And how about the tech support desk of every major computer company in the gawdamned Universe? Are you seriously suggesting that the strain of convincing someone that you’re name is Kevin though a thick East Indian accent won’t cause a little lower back ache? Please.
Yeah. This is what happens when I can’t use tequila as an outlet.