Apparently white people are not allowed to do yoga anymore.

This is so friggin' half-caf latte I can't even.

I had never been to a yoga class where I hadn't lost awareness of my surroundings, but under the pagoda in Tallala, my attention would just hop from one colored Lululemon sports bra to the next.
I felt surrounded by mirrors, like I was watching the classes from outside myself, poised and ready to Instagram the next shape I made and acutely aware of my complicity in Mary-Kate's spectacle of appropriation.

 

Because, y'know, Mary-Kate is a white chick. White chicks can't yoga like brown chicks, everybody knows that. Make mine a soy latte.

I knew that when a cultural practice is co-opted by the masses it wasn't just about class, that there was also the loss of meaning and transfer of power when tradition becomes mainstream, but here I was, taking notes down on my phone about my fellow yogi's favorite brand of carob chocolate.
I knew I was complicit in a festival of self-absorption and cultural appropriation but there was a small part of me that had sipped the kombucha and thought transcendence might strike me. I was secretly waiting for some sort of insight. In the mornings, we were encouraged to write out our thoughts in a stream of consciousness and I hoped for even a single line of profundity but the closest I got was earnest descriptions of how beautiful the beaches were.

 

You want an insight? You are a vapid, catty bitch. Start with that.

The Phantom

Update, welcome you vast unruly horde from Instapundit!