The artist Bjorn Davidson is fond of calling our area — North Palm Beach County — the land of the yoga pants. It wasn’t till I left our zone for the rest of the United States recently that I discovered fit women from 20 to 60 don’t all wear yoga attire.
A disappointment, certainly, but like so many unsettling experiences in life, I grew from it.
In the land of the yoga pants, fitness is queen. As long as you are calm and cosmic in your glistening.
In the land of the yoga pants, om is more common than amen.
In the land of the yoga pants, you may not actually have attended a yoga class in some months but extra points accrue if you look like you might break into an asana any moment.
Spontaneously, yet mindfully.
In the land of the yoga pants, we use words like energy when we’re speaking of some spooky gestalt encompassing character and personality. Or the way we feel about how a project is going — or our life mission — or our life mate — or our desire to do yoga.
“She’s got good energy. You can feel it.”
“The energy’s just not flowing these days. It’s not there. You can’t force it.”
In the land of the yoga pants, Whole Foods is a spiritual discipline.
As is conscious anything . . . conscious parenting, conscious uncoupling, conscious sexuality, conscious consumption, conscious pumice stoning.
I’m writing to you now while swimming the backstroke in a pool of expanded consciousness.
Forget power napping. Go straight to conscious napping. There’s nothing more elevated than attaining conscious unconsciousness.
In the land of the yoga pants, we seek to expand our awareness and our net worth. Our chakras and our playdate network.
In the land of the yoga pants, men don’t wear them. Though they sure appreciate women who do. Ask Bjorn.