whoa

last night after the restorative yoga class my hippie yoga teacher was in the studio's kitchen making "raw" sushi. imagine an incredibly muscular, sort of masculine woman in her 40s wearing a knitted black peruvian hat with the danglies on either side of the head along with an extremely housewifey orange floral patterned apron. she was ladling out portions of a drink she'd concocted - it was like a mysterious brew in a plastic bucket with whole plants and sticks floating around inside. it tasted like toothpaste. meanwhile, she was ranting about what the rest of downtown LA at rush hour looks like from inside her yoga studio. "I just want to stand outside with a sign that says, 'W...H...O...A. WHOA. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN. We're on a planet. WE'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE.'" she then talked about how, while living in Bali, she chucked her cell phone in a rice paddy because she realized, with her phone constantly ringing and her experiencing road rage and worrying about arriving places on time, that she had become too LA.