Take your Hard Tail home, trixie

Open letter to every yoga trendoid in LA:

Get a clue. Please. Yoga class is NOT ABOUT retail oneupsmanship. No one cares about your new Fred Segal yoga outfit with the perfectly color coordinated thong and yoga mat. No one cares if you have fat-free thighs or big, round boobies. No one cares if your LuluLemon pants match your earrings. You may think you look hip and trendy but you really just come off as clueless and shallow. As my favorite yoga teacher says (often, because his class is packed with these nitwits), "Don't come to class if you're not here to do the class." If you spend half the class picking at your new pedicure while you're in down dog, this means you.

Yoga trendoids are ubiquitous in LA. They're a breed unto themselves. They twirl, they preen, they wear makeup and jewelry to class in a vain effort to catch themselves a mate. You can generally find them driving their Mercedes SUV to class and bending over whenever a hot guy walks by.

For anyone tending toward the anthropological, the best environment in which to find said trendoids is at Maha Yoga on 26th and San Vicente, or at the vile Zen Zoo Tea around the corner. Your gag reflex will warn you when they're nearby.