Remember the yoga studio I wanted to work at? The one that, in Colorado, shaped my practice, gave me my roots and wings and my sense of self, the one that molded me into who I am today?
I got hired.
For eight months, I put everything I had into teaching those classes. I spent long hours making playlists, creating sequences, commuting an hour each way. My brain hurt and my body hurt and I hardly ever got to take class as a student. I’d fall into bed after getting home at 1030pm (on a good day, and only if I caught the right bus). And in a city where some teachers are paid upwards of $100 per class, I made $15 an hour. Which, by the time you factor in commuting is $7.50 an hour, and by the time you factor in taxes, is pretty much charity.
I also got fired.
You’re insubordinate, she said. You have a bad attitude, she said. People are afraid to be around you and you’re dramatic and I know who you’ve been talking to and he said and she said and they said…
The place that was my shelter cut me off at the knees.
I could speculate for hours. I could consider egos and emotions and politics and intimidation and ulterior motives. I actually already have. I’d say it drove me crazy if I wasn’t already there.
But the fact of the matter is…it’s done. Suddenly I had time to go to the gym, and practice on my own, and listen to music just to listen, not to figure out where to jam it into a playlist. I’d find myself running or busting out a handstand and a smile would creep onto my lips out of nowhere. But I knew why it had come.
I was free.
Do I feel slighted, jaded, betrayed? Absolutely. Do I still cry about it, late at night, when I don’t think anyone else can hear? At least once a week. Have I heard a second peep from all the students and fellow teachers who were so outraged to hear what had happened when it did? Of course not.
Am I actually glad, is there a silver lining, do I find gratitude to have escaped the jealous sorority of boutique corporate yoga?
Every damn day.