Excuse me, m'am, taking a selfie of your perfect pigeon pose. And you, sir, sneaking a look at your pecs in the mirror while you hold your headstand. And all you other folks who just waltzed out of Pure Yoga in your Lululemon gear, with a week's juice detox in your bag, ready to hashtag pictures of your bone-defying bendiness under #namaste and #yoga.
We get it. You love yoga. Yoga is your life. It's part of your quinoa-loving, kale-obsessed being and your guru-given right to spread the gospel (and give the stink eye) to the mere mortals who have somehow haplessly wandered into your holy church of yoga.
Your body is a temple, and by god your session will be perfect. You can't be surrounded by any eyesores. Can you believe that girl who just rocked up in her hole-y sweats and can't even hold a tree pose? "Just go home already!" you cry.
Yes, you may be preaching the virtues of the Zen lifestyle, but with your expensive gyms, designer Lycra and organic veg you're actually buying into the commercialisation, corporatisation and assholeisation of it all (yes I know that's not actually a word).
You wear the designer duds, name drop celebrity yoga instructors and judge anyone in the studio who doesn't have the taut body of a 19-year-old.