Here's a link to an article about Yoga Bitch in this week's Seattle Weekly:
Suzanne Morrison is tired of spending money on fancy yoga pants. But like so many of us, she continues to buy them despite herself-- a contradiction she explores in her one-woman show, Yoga Bitch. "It's a brilliant industry," says the itinerant local writer and performer. "Spending $150 a month on yoga makes me feel like I'm doing something better for the world," she says sarcastically. "I don't think it's quite on the same level as Gandhi's hunger strike."
I spoke with Anna Ross by phone from LA last week, after accompanying my girlfriend Jessica to her first prenatal yoga class at Santa Monica's Yoga Works. I had accidentally spent a chunk of money on some super-cute yoga pants, thinking that I might need them for future costumes for Yoga Bitch, since the hue of my current ensemble is starting to look less like the gorgeous purple of an eggplant's skin and more like the sickly grey vegetable matter inside of one.
I may have also been buying them because they had this neat belly-obscuring swath of material that was very slimming, and being very much not pregnant at the time of this prenatal yoga class, I was horrified when the teacher spoke to me on three separate occasions about the baby growing inside of me. "Seriously," I wanted to say, "it's beer."
But of course the truth is in-between. I liked the pants for the show, and I liked the sexy swath of belly-flattering material, but there was also that familiar little frisson up my spine that tells me that if I buy some sexy, flowy, comfy yoga clothes, I will start to feel as sexy, flowy and comfy as the women who are forever flowing on sandy beaches in Eileen Fisher ads. Make no mistake: I am a sucker for wellness propaganda. And these pants, all $71 dollars worth of them, make me feel more flexible, more well. Until I wash them three or four times. Then they just feel like sweats. Rinse, repeat.