Kadee started her own yoga studio on the day she was fired from her fifth yoga job.
The other yoga teachers had been a bit leery of Kadee from the first day. They thought her red fingernails and Bettie Page hair weren’t really appropriate for the space they were creating. And she was loud. And she was opinionated. She didn’t fit in. So she had to go.
Kadee paid a cousin to rent a big space for cheap and decorated it. Leopard-print wallpaper on the walls, plastered with cheesecake 50s models and pictures of hot rods. She named it Rockabilly Yoga and felt very proud of herself.
Two months later, the numbers were… okay. And the customers kind of liked the place.
But they didn’t love it.
Discouraged and hurt, Kadee asked her friend Lola to see if she could figure out what was wrong. Lola wandered around the studio, sat in on a couple of classes, and then took Kadee for a restorative Jack Daniels and some hard truths.
“Sweetie,” said Lola, “You’re really boring.”
“WHAAAAAT?” shrieked Kadee. She subtly indicated within the shriek that no boring person, ever, has made a noise like this in a public place.
“I don’t mean you you. I mean doing-yoga-you. I mean, you’re still wearing those same Lululemon tops and chanting the same “Downward-facing Dog, now Upward-facing Dog” boring crap. I closed my eyes for a bit there and I thought I was in every yoga place, like, ever. I mean, I remember you saying that you wanted this place to be for all the freaks who liked yoga but didn’t want to go all fucking kumbaya over it. And sweetie, this is still pretty fucking kumbaya.”
Kadee downed three shots of Jack Daniels and searched her soul.
The next day she talked to Lola again. “Okay. I get it. I’ve gotten stuck in doing stuff like everyone else because, you know, habit. But Lola sweetie, you know what I’m like. I cuss. I tell really dirty jokes. I clipped out that bit from my report card that says, “Kadee is wildly inappropriate” and turned it into a badge. Wouldn’t I go broke if I let that rip?”
“How many people do you know who are wildly inappropriate and would love to do yoga but never feel welcome there?”
“Oh, like a hundred or so, I think.”
“And you only need two dozen regular clients to pay the bills, right?”
“Right.” (This said in a slightly grumpy “Yes, you’re right and I hate you a little bit” tone.)
“And could you really give those people what they need – fun, freakin irreverent and rockin, turbo-charged yoga – by being all restrained and boring?”
Sigh. “Nooooo.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m fucking terrified, alright? This is all the stuff that’s kind of embarassing about me. This is why my brother pretends we’re not related when we go bowling. This is… you know… history.”
Lola patted Kadee’s tattoos kindly. “I get that, sweetie. But all the other wildly inappropriate freaks need somewhere to get fit and fabulous and feel welcome. They’re never going to fit in at the gym, right?” Cue ironic headshake. “And I know you want to look after them, sweetie. So you gotta be you, ugly and all, so they can be them.”
“It’s still scary.”
“I know it is, sweetie. Now harden the fuck up and get going.”
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