Death of a Yoga Mat

Murdered Yoga Mat
Alas, poor Yoga Mat, I Didn’t Know You Well Enough
Taken September 15, 2014 with Samsung Galaxy S3

I didn’t know you well… but truth be told, that’s my own fault; why do I mourn you now?

When I saw you in the store, I fell in love – or thought I did. You were extra long – I had been stubborn about the length of my new beau… I don’t like my toes touching hardwood during Downward Dog. I don’t care what you’ve heard – size matters; it really does. You, Darling, were more than long enough. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

And you were orange! The happiest of the happy colours! That may even have been the real deciding factor in the purchase of you. Orange. I had to have you.

I had all the best intentions for a long and intimate relationship when I brought you home to live with me, I really did. Those first few days were good weren’t they?

After a while, though, I had to reluctantly admit that I really didn’t like you very much. For reasons I still can’t fathom, you just pissed me off. Every time I looked at you, I felt guilt. Real yoga should be performed on a real yoga mat, after all… but compared to the dangerously slip-slidey, dog-and-cat-fur-embedded homemade scatter mat… well, you just didn’t cut the Tree like I thought you would.

Perhaps I can only blame myself for some of your short-comings – had I opened up to you more regularly, perhaps you would have opened up for me, instead of sneakily curling up in the middle of my routine and attempting to injure me. The Bird of Paradise is awkward enough without the assassination attempts. Thanks for those – way to help me find my Zen!

I should have known your days were coming to a sad and pitiful end, I really should have. It wasn’t long after the guilt set in at seeing you throw those longing-yet-hateful looks at me every morning, that I relegated you to the space behind the out-of-season clothing and the now-unworn work uniforms. I’m sorry for that insult – now.

It was there, in the dark, that you met the beginning of your end, in the form of the Little Black Freak, who, for reasons of her own, hated you more than I did. I heard her torturing you; heard her flaying off bits of your skin, night after night while I lay drifting off to the sounds of Supernatural playing on Netflix, but I mistook the scuffling for impatient attempts at clawing out that one last missing home-made Baby-Bel cat toy… You can’t really blame me for that – those sounds are very similar.

The guilt remains, however – I did nothing – nothing, to save you.

It wasn’t until you were dragged out bodily, and loudly, at the ungodly hour of 3-ish am, that I discovered the error of my lazy-ass ways: bounding out of bed in a panic, thinking “Mouse!” then “Intruder!!“, followed by “WTF?!“, as I tripped over you one final time. My heart shrinks a little to know that the last words I spoke to you are profane enough that I don’t dare type them on my blog… but, honestly, it really only shrinks a little… I’m getting over you.

Cuz you sucked at your job. You really did.

If it makes you feel a little vindicated, know that I still feel a small pang of guilt every time I find another scrap of your hide lurking under the furniture or in the Dyson dust-bin when I empty it. You’ll feel that small joy for years to come, I’m sure – I’ve noticed that Yoga Mat Skin is very similar to Christmas tree needles… it crawls away and hides in all the nooks and crannies. My belfry has a lot of nooks and crannies.

And if you should be so lucky (probably as a reward for dying courageously and valiantly by cat-claw) to ascend to the Heavens, know this, Yoga Mat: saints and angels will no doubt hate you too.

Random Song-for-the-Day: “Painter Man” – Boney M.

4 Replies to “Death of a Yoga Mat”

  1. It was doomed from the start. At least you gave it a try. OBVIOUSLY it did something to really piss off the Little Black Freak–yoga mats are sneaky like that.

    Chocolate might help. Heh.

    1. I wonder if the Little Black Freak would steal my chocolate when I wasn’t looking – my daughter’s dog does that to her all the time.

      Actually, I already know the answer to that – because no amount of chocolate would last me more than one sitting.

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