Yoga ladies have become the scourge of every advertising campaign on the planet. They used to promote yoghurt and vitamin pills, and now they’re everywhere: insurance, property, even pet food (entendre on ‘downward-facing dog’, hilar).
God forbid we should see a yoga lady promoting an actual yoga studio! And men don’t do yoga, everyone knows that. Or anyone who isn’t white.
In ye olden days of advertising, chirpy housewives with tiny waists did nothing but beam next to their toasters and shriek uncontrollably at the sight of a fridge. We endured dumb and disembodied women in the ‘70s and continue to suffer through all of Dove’s nonsense. So what did we do to deserve the Lorna Jane hordes?
When did the yoga lady come on the scene to haunt our dreams?
Does it have anything to do with nut allergies and everyone feeling ‘stressed’ and ‘busy’? What are ad agencies trying to say with the yoga lady?
Let me tell you here that the yoga lady in advertising hasn’t done a minute of yoga in her life.
She is naturally slim with no muscle tone, and looks good in skin-tight yoga pants and a g-string. Her arms are like noodles. She has one of those toilet roll-shaped bodies that make regular people wonder: where in the sam hill do all her organs go?
The yoga lady is vaguely spiritual. She drinks soy or almond milk. She enjoys yoghurt. She enjoys the shit out of yoghurt, plus a good sunrise.
The yoga lady doesn’t grunt, swear, or fail to achieve the Wounded Peacock pose. The yoga lady never rips any rich and anti-social farts.
The yoga lady is not that chick who, at the start of every class, shoots up her hand and announces to a room full of strangers, “GURU ASHLEIGH. I AM MENSTRUATING. OVER HERE, UP THE BACK. IN ADDITION, I AM EXPERIENCING PAINFUL CRAMPS AND HEAVY CLOTTING” just so she can get a ton of ‘special treatment’ and ‘gentle poses’ while the rest of us flail and sweat.
The yoga lady in advertising is not like you and me. But I am in the demographic for the yoga lady’s schtick, ain’t I?
Shouldn’t be buying a ton of off-the-plan apartments, sugar-free yoghurt and blonde labradoodles? Screeching towards 40, soft and swingy around the middle, evangelical about staying fit, careful about what I put in my gob?
I smell some vanilla soy candle-scented bullshit.
Advertisers: bring me some fit swordfighting ladies who can actually do the sport. Or at the very least, a legit yoga practitioner who knows how to get from a warrior to a triangle pose.
Then I’ll think about buying your pestilential product.