people wearing yoga pants

O lives downstairs.

As those (two) long term readers of my ex-blog may remember, O leaves presents in the lift: orangina bottles, dead flowers, scissors that fold instead of cut - that sort of thing. Always accompanied with an Alice in Wonderland note that implores the lift-rider to 'please take me if you can use me'.

She is a one-woman freecycle without the million email updates.

O periodically slides postcards through my door, decorated in her flowery handwriting, usually telling me about some writing thing that's coming up and always wishing me luck with my own creative endeavours.

O is also buddihst. She isn't secretive about it, but neither is she Ab Fab 'I'm a BUDDHIST darling' about it. It is something that seems really personal and heartfelt, and as she is in her 60's (I think) I imagine it is something that she came to after a good deal of life experience and self-questioning.

She is the kind of kind but take no shit, not bothered what the neighbours think, eccentric, grumpy, love everyone but not in a fluffy way, flower planting, exercises in the hallway, head held high old woman that I aspire to be in about 35 years or so. And she makes me smile.

Today, she posts me a postcard (good luck for saturday) along with two posters for upcoming writing workshops at the Buddhist Centre. It confirms what I've heard before about the centre - enlightenment doesn't come cheap. The price on the poster makes me gasp and at exactly the same time as I recognise O's sincerity and integrity, I balk at the 'show us the money' vibe that eminates from Manchester's city centre haven of high end spiritual access.

My friend J went to an open day at the centre recently - wide eyed and excited to see what was what - and a few days later we invested a good 45 minutes ranting about the general air of secrecy and unfriendliness to anyone who's not willing to stump up several hundred quid to take the introductory courses, and the miniscule £15 'luxury meditation cushions' in the shop. After exhausting that line of rant, she told me about the workshop she sat in on.

It was a big-ish group, and was being lead by a guy who was asking people to do really basic visualisation things. There was J totally happy to go along with that and see what happened.

He said, 'I'm going to say a sentence and I want you to note how you feel when I say it..........'You are a good person'.'

'Awww' smiled J, as she looked around noting the high AbFab/poshness factor of the workshopees.

It was time for everyone to feedback how they all felt, and in addition to the disproportionate AbFab quotient, J quickly became aware of the high level of unspecified angst in the room, with various people saying that they were uncomfortable with the exercise they'd just done. It peaked with one woman who declared that she thought the statement 'was abusive'.

The Aren't I Complex attention seeking competition took off from there.

I should mention at this point that J runs a weekly writing and self-development workshop for people who have survived the mental health system in any of its forms. There are people there who hear voices, have had periods of mania and psychosis, crushing depression, been on a million kinds of meds, and could tell you a thing or two about the vast array of therapies available on the NHS. There are people there who might have a considerably different definition for the word 'abuse'.

But hey, we're at the buddhist centre now. We're extra sensitive. We're spiritually in tune.

Perhaps the Ab Fab buddhists really are more complex than regular people.

Perhaps they are so sadly lacking in opportunities to step out of their high-achieving, high-functioning lifestyles that a simple open-day workshop will unleash a thousand deep seated issues that they really need to explore (at a convenient pencilled in time).

Perhaps their definitions and personal understandings of words like 'abuse' are so flexible that they include positive, affirming interactions with others as well as, um, abusive ones.

Perhaps....perhaps...they need some serious help to get their heads out of their ayurvedically irrigated arses.

Perhaps I'm judgemental and impatient, perhaps, but as J summarised: 'You kinda expect people wearing yoga pants to have sorted their shit, y'know?'

Yep.