Fuck You Lulu Lemon and the Downward Dog You Rode In On

I would like to make some comment about Lululemon ("Lemon"). Lemon is a company of local origin which has hit it big. Lemon is a purveyor of yoga clothing, yoga accessories, and yoga living through the purchase and public wearing of yoga clothing and accessories. I have some Lemon wear and I can assure you my fucking chakras are all ajingle with merriment every time that hot spandex garb touches my loins... or other parts... it doesn't matter.

The point remains, Lemon sells Spandex. Spandex. There was a time when some sense of moral rectitude still existed in this heathen land and spandex was banned. Bandex. Now it's traded on the Nasdaq Index. The end times are upon us. Is there any hope?

This is not a quibble with the success of this purveyor of a lifestyle based on the implementation and overly broad application of clothing made from a synthetic stretchy fabric which most of us ought not ever apply to our bodies. Bully for Lemon and all that. The issue is the re-usable shopping bag I received with my last purchase. "What's wrong with a re-usable bag? Your wife is getting greener all the time," I pretend to hear you say, in some lame rhetorical exercise. The issue is not the handy planet-saving bag nor the fact I now advertise for the Lemon and have paid for the privilege.

The issue is what is on the bag. I can get over the innumerable thumbnail photos of yoga people getting extremely yogic in a variety of yoga places and non-yoga places rendered yogic by the performance of yoga and so on, all while garbed in Lemon and doubtless thinking Lemony thoughts as they consider the depth of the truths contained in the life-improving exhortations the bag offers on the text side (such as "Observe a plant before and after watering and relate these benefits to your body and brain", or maybe "DANCE, SING, FLOSS AND TRAVEL") because these sayings have truly enriched my life and those of everyone I know who has been exposed to the bag. Truly.

I can overlook the fact that a bag is telling me how to live. No, really. But there is one statement I cannot forgive. It goes like this: Children are the orgasm of life.

Ok. Grab a kleenex. (To be fair, the bag contains an expansive statement to follow this little bit of wisdom but I do not believe the statement is capable of rehabilitation.)

Rather than rile myself up further in consideration of the impugned statement, allow me to say this:

Dear Lemon,

Wherever you are, either here on earth or flying yogically through the spheres like some seriously deranged crane, you have transgressed an unwritten rule of propriety. By that I do not refer to those spray-on pants I have casually observed on the rumps of women throughout the city of Vancouver. In some rare instances, when I have caught myself looking at the said posteriors, accidentally and with great guilt, I have supported your cause. But no more! There are two words on your handy little tote which ought never be in the same sentence. One of the words is "children." The other is "orgasm". What were you thinking?

Yours transcendentally,

P-man