I am about the farthest thing from a fitness fanatic as you can get. If freaking out on my kids were an olympic sport, I’d be in serious contention for the gold. Hell, I’d be the Michael Phelps of freaking out most likely. Frankly, it should be an olympic sport — if done properly, it takes endurance, anaerobic skill, fast thinking and focus. But I digress…
I do try my best to be open minded and remind myself that what might not be my cup of tea, just may be the panacea that another person needs. To each his/her own, right? But can someone please explain to me why Goat Yoga needs to be a thing? And in case you didn’t know, oh yes, it IS a thing.
You too can do a downward dog with a goat standing on your back, get a little cloven-hooved shiatsu while planking or have a snuggle buddy during child’s pose. I mean I do see how pet therapy can really help people mentally and physically feel better — what’s not to love about a good snuggle, unconditional love and something kind and gentle to take your mind off of a world full of problems. But goats? Hmm. I just don’t see how it ends well.
In addition to eating everything in sight, goats are not the best potty-trained animals. As if yoga doesn’t put you in some of the most vulnerable poses with your butt in the air or twisted like a crazed noodle, then introduce a famished, shitting little beast with sharp feet to it…Really? I can just imagine my humiliation when all the goats fight over who gets to curl up on my extra cushy butt, head butt my boobs or knead my squishy abs like a crazed baker. And if one chews a hole in my favorite yoga pants, that beast’s getting turned into goat curry with a side of samosa faster than I can string 20 curse words together. I will not even go into my thoughts on their toileting habits. No. Just no.
To make things even more whacko, the Denver International Airport now offers Goat Yoga classes between flights.
Yes, to rid yourself of the stress you have endured barely making it to the airport on time, schlepping your baggage 20 miles from the long-term parking lot, standing in an endless line of surly travelers waiting to check their baggage for fee equivalent to the GDP of Zimbabwe, then getting felt up by an over-enthusiastic TSA agent so you could arrive at your gate only to find your flight’s been delayed by a decade. Instead of stressing out (or going to the airport bar like a normal person) — you say, “Hmm… What is that tantalizing barnyard smell? Goat Yoga!! YES! SIGN ME UP PLEASE!”
I mean can’t you just imagine the horror of your fellow passengers after you’ve just been rolling around with goats? They see you lurch down the airplane aisle looking for your seat, a cloud of goat stench and sweat fumes emanating from you, a welt in the shape of a hoof print appearing on your forehead and a big god-knows-what stain on your shirt. I don’t know about you, but I’d be praying that mom with the crazed look in her eye towing her three tantrum-throwing children behind her sits next to me. Even though she gave up her last fuck to give back in Cleveland, I’m guessing she has booze stashed in her diaper bag and she might just share.
Now that I think about it, next time my husband pisses me off, I’m going to secretly hope he gets seated next to a man-spreading, barefoot goat yogi on his next flight to China.