Real yogis don’t sweat.

Real yogis don’t sore from their practice.

Real yogis meditate. Like, a lot. In far away places. But they don’t sit in ways that might make them sore. Because that wouldn’t be real yoga.

Real yogis don’t do handstands in bikinis or heels.

Real yogis don’t wear Lululemon (unless it’s vintage Lululemon hanging around in closet dust since way before Lulugate 2013. That sh*t’s been grandfathered in). Or batgirl costumes.

Real yogis don’t medicate, they meditate– no wait, real yogis DO medicate— forgive me, it is just so hard to keep real yoga stuff straight. Real yogis are vegetarian, No– lacto-ovo, No-macrobiotic, No- Paleo, No-seasonal/locavores, No-Vegan, except for some wild Alaskan salmon, once in a while, because fish doesn’t count, right?

Oh, and real yogis don’t drink margaritas.

Real yogis don’t tweet, except to spread the word about what real yoga is or is not, which you definitely cannot do on Instagram, because obtaining a picture of the real yogi in handstand might cause the yogi to sweat or get sore and that would most definitely not be real yoga, even if the hand-stander is meditating. A real yogi cannot be on the cover of YogaJournal because a real yogi is not even photographable, kind of like a ghost. Real yogis don’t care about whether or not they will ever get that lotus from forearm stand and stick karandavasana because real yogis don’t care that much about getting anywhere with postures (see sweating and soreness, above). Real yogis are over asana, except to passive-aggressively belittle it, finding their union in separating the mental from the physical, because they are so damn good they can sever the mind-body connection. Indeed, real yogis don’t do yoga for any physical purpose or side effect, especially not (cringe) fitness, because physical health is one of those trifling, mundane things that real yogis do not concern their central channels with. A real yogi is lithe no curvy no fit no young no ageless no, kind of grandfatherly looking, with a beard, Gandolphe perhaps or–Norman Allen?

Real yogis DO have conversations that begin with the words, “Real Yoga is actually about_______” preferably uttered with an air of condescension. I should know. I used to spew real yoga gospel myself, back when I first graduated from teacher training, when of course I knew absolutely EVERYTHING about real yoga.

Real yogis sure talk a lot of sh*tasana.

Sigh. I guess I’m not a real yogi (except for the talking sh*tasana, I’m actually kind of good at that). I’m just a pitiable pitta practicing pedestrian postures– trying to lift up on one inhale and exhale jump back to chaturanga, bringing my gaze to my nose; the vinyasa, the postures,

this suturing of movement, breath, focus, and gaze, finding yoga in my asana, becoming one thing out of many, all things in one. This laughable gymnastics teaches me nothing, my dear real yogis, though it brings me face to face with fears, demons, not to mention my interminable list of luxury-born complaints and excuses, yogic uglies— Ashtanga never let’s me say “pass.” It puts me in touch with something inside me that is beyond, powerful and creative, makes me dream of meditation even (shh, don’t get all excited on me, Real Yogis) and laying it down, but as I land in that umpteenth chaturanga–

f–k it, I’m sweating.

So much for real yoga.