Dear Mr. Samuelson,

Please accept this letter as my official resignation from your weekly "Asana Cabana" yoga and mediative margarita-drinking class. While I've certainly had fun (and nearly killed a family of four driving home one evening), I've discovered that your methods and teachings have little to do with traditional yoga. I blame myself, partially, because the purple unitard requirement clearly outlined in the brochure should have alerted me to the uniqueness of your course. Still, at the time, the idea of "meditation meets intoxication" (also in the brochure) seemed like a no-brainer.

Tell me, Mr. Samuelson, do you plan to enroll anyone else in the class, or is it usually you, your Aunt Gladys, and some poor sap who is actually swayed by your advertisements?

There were good times, yes. Like when you fell from that stack of telephone books, trying to teach us the "Statue of Patanjaliberty" pose. But what about the time I woke up naked and violated following the "Samadhi-Siesta?" Come to think of it, that was actually kind of nice as well. Remember when Aunt Gladys baked us cookies but accidentally added iodine to the batter instead of vanilla? That was honestly the most fun I've had in an ambulance in years. Or the time you told the cleaning lady she should take off her clothes because it was "Sanskirt" day. How's that lawsuit coming, by the way?

Oh, what am I saying, I'll see you Thursday.