I was calmly sitting on my mat, trying to “center myself” before a mixed-level yoga class, when in walked a beautifully thick, strong woman who boldly wore The Forbidden:
White yoga pants.
Yes, white. I know, right? And they were beyond tight. They looked as though they were painted on her skin. And the fabric? THIN. I’m talking one shade shy of translucent.
They showed everything. Every. Thing.
Apparently she did not heed the unwritten fashion rule passed down from our matriarchal elders:
NO WHITE YOGA PANTS, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, NEVER. NO. JUST, SERIOUSLY, NO. (I’m pretty sure this is how it has been worded throughout the generations).
Not trying to be some kind of judge here, but there were parts of this woman that I didn’t really need to see, if you catch my drift. And now, I can’t un-see them.
All of her bits, pieces, puckers, and folds were on full, open display – every inch of her body revealed. If I had to describe it for a police sketch from the eyeful seared upon my brain, the detail and shadowing alone would be both ground-breaking artistic work, and amazingly on point. The drawing would undoubtedly end up in an art museum somewhere, but alas I digress.
When there’s a lady directly in front of you showing every “nuance” of her bending, twisting, lovely lady parts, it’s very difficult to concentrate – and I don’t care who you are.
The adult in me floated right out the window past the serenely smiling Buddha, and the nervous kid in me took over. I dipped into the realm of childish curiosity, and I couldn’t keep myself from repeatedly glancing in her direction. Of course her upper half had to share the spotlight – a cropped tank top of all things! Sheesh.
I’m going to keep it real here. Her multiple cracks and crevices fascinated me. My drishti darted from a small spot on the wall in front of the room, back to her muscular, symmetrical, perfectly divided ass cheeks time and time again throughout class. I lost my balance and clumsily wobbled a bit trying get into my “tree” pose. I even toppled over at one point. I tried like hell, but I simply couldn’t look away from what can only be described as “the rhythmic clenching.” My resolve to be “mature about it” was simply no match for the allure of those damn, sassy, sensuous, very white pants.
Halfway through class, while struggling to hold my downward dog, I quietly questioned my own sexuality. With a forceful exhale, I bravely soldiered on. I tried in vain to surrender and just take it one breath at a time.
It was difficult to concentrate on my breathing, or my mantras, though. How the hell was I supposed to set my fucking intentions? Honestly, I really don’t know how any of us made it through that class. We didn’t know how to feel. After, for support, we met for beers so we could talk about it and work through our assorted emotions.
But, all kidding aside, her sheer, “in your face” (literally) confidence drew me closer to becoming “a true believer” in the Divine Feminine Mystique. Her fierce “truth” was palpable and it permeated the studio. I admired her conviction which seemed to be quite simple:
I’M A PHENOMENAL WOMAN, Y’ALL.
I’M PHENOMENAL BECA– USE I AM A WOMAN.
I AM EQUAL, I AM CREATIVE, AND I AM DYNAMIC.
AND GUESS WHAT ELSE?
I’M DOING IT ALL RIGHT IN YOUR FACE IN MY FORBIDDEN WHITE YOGA PANTS!
It was powerful stuff.
The white yoga pant, when “done right,” is majestic and exceptional to behold, much like the rarely seen, heavily folklored Albino Rhino. In other words, it is commonly believed that there are only four women currently alive on the planet who can unabashedly wear this style WITHOUT the aid of a VERY WIDE, folded over waistband, or a “blousy,” smocked top of sorts.
But the woman in my class didn’t care about what she “should” or “shouldn’t” wear. You heard that right. She didn’t care. She was there to un-apologetically do her yoga thing. She went through her practice happily unashamed, uncovered, and unguarded. Which is exactly how we should all strive to be.
Some might argue that white yoga pants are the devils’ work. But after that class, and observing that woman flowing freely and gloriously in her space, I now choose to believe that their rebellious emergence and rise in popularity among many women has more to do with the rigorous activism of a certain revolutionary girl gang, The Notorious BAB-CG’s (Bad Ass Body Confident Goddesses) who patiently wait to be set free from the shamed confines of us all.