I Kicked a Man in the Face During Yoga—He Had It Coming

My Core Is Strong, but My Soul Is Missing.

Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash

They say yoga brings light into your soul. I remain a human void, but at least my hamstrings are slightly less hostile.

If light ever tried to enter me, it probably got scared off by what happened in year one.

After three years of yoga, I’ve collected some truly humiliating highlights. In the early days, I attempted a headstand, fell flat on my back, startled the entire class, and triggered a scream from a fellow yogi. I tried to play it cool despite the pain, realizing that at 50, unassisted headstands might not be in my spiritual wheelhouse.

But that wasn’t my only lowlight.

During a crowded class, when the instructor asked us to lift our right legs in the Down Dog Three-Legged pose, I accidentally kicked the man behind me in the face. Full contact. Open foot. Right to the eye.

He dropped into Child’s Pose and didn’t move for ten minutes. I know this because when I apologized, he told me he needed exactly that long to recover.

To be fair, he had encroached on my mat. But for those ten minutes, he remained a silent lump on the floor while the rest of us moved on. I felt awful for wrecking his chi. But also — grab your spandexed balls, Brad.

He still follows me on Instagram. Never likes my posts. Just… watches.

Yoga starts with an “intention” — something to focus on. Mine was don’t hospitalize anyone today. Not what they mean by enlightenment, but it’s the only kind I’m capable of. Eventually, I upgraded to “Avoid eye contact with Brad.” Baby steps.

The middle of class is usually my favorite part — we’re moving, balancing, trying not to fart. My mind goes quiet. Except when it doesn’t.

Last week, I counted how many Stanley tumblers got knocked over during class. Three.
One rolled across my mat like a passive-aggressive Roomba.
One bounced into a woman’s hair during Child’s Pose.
One hit the floor so hard the instructor muttered something in Sanskrit that definitely wasn’t “loving-kindness.”

When the third one hit the floor, I swear I heard a monk scream in the distance.

At the end of class, we lie in Shavasana — the five-minute existential crisis. We’re supposed to reflect on the intention we set at the beginning. I usually just grip the edges of my mat like I’m bracing for a beam of light to enter my body with brute force.

No connection to the earth. No spiritual insight. Just me, a middle-aged meat sack, trying not to huff the peppermint oil evaporating somewhere above my face.

Somewhere across the room, Brad exhaled like a man finally releasing the memory of a foot to the face.

Wussy.

I swear I once heard the instructor whisper, “Oh for fuck’s sake,” when another tumbler crashed to the floor. I felt that.

They say yoga is about connecting with your true self,  discovering something profound through stillness, breath, and presence.

I’m bad at that part.

I’m not fully present. I’m just a person-shaped blob on a mat, waiting for an eucalyptus-scented towel to save me.

Can’t I just enjoy yoga for what it is — gentle movement, occasional contortion, and the faint, inescapable scent of feet, butt, and tahini paste?

I set no intention. I found no light.

But I did count three tumblers kicked over.

And if Brad ever comes near my mat again, I’ll make it four.

Namaste.

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