There is no easy way to break this to you: competitive yoga exists.

I’ve told you, and I’m sorry about that. Feel free to clutch your head and stagger around the living room.

“Competitive, yo, no, please make it stop!”

This all came to my attention when I saw an elaborate and glossy ad for an upcoming “yoga competition.” Is nothing sacred anymore? Even sacred stuff like yoga?

Now before you think that I’m just a large and doughy malcontent who shovels in snacks while sneering at fitness competitions, let me assure you, you’re close.

But I do go to yoga once in a while. Who doesn’t?

Unless you’ve been on a strict no-media regime, you are aware that yoga has overtaken the nation.

Spinning stopped being cool (sorry grunting guys) a while back.

A pleasantly cult-like calm descended upon the land and every neighbor, coworker and friend started to speak knowingly of vinyasa flow (don’t call a plumber). And in hushed and reverent tones about the virtues of Bikram (that’s the sweaty kind done in sealed rooms at 108 degrees).

The masses were gently drawn to the historically non-competitive nature of yoga. Beginning classes often call only for the prerequisite of breathing. Fair enough.

Not practicing yoga has become like saying you don’t believe in the Internet or basic hygiene.

But this new development that yoga is, in fact, on its way to becoming an Olympic sport is quite a setback.

I mean, honestly, what’s next, competitive Rosary saying?

Why not? If we’re going to take conceptually serene activities like yoga and concoct competition around them, I’m keeping my fingers nimble for the Rosary tournament.

“In this corner, we have Mary Margaret “Holy Fingers” Flannigan. And in this corner, “Bridget Marie “Beads of Glory” Herlihy! On your mark, get set, Hail Mary!”

While we’re at it, let’s get competitive about birth, and what the heck, death!

Stadiums, snacks, parking troubles-the works!

“See you in Miami for the Southeast Birthing Championships.”

“Hope you can book a room in Minneapolis for the American Death Finals.”

I needed to find out more about this whole competitive yoga business. So, no small surprise, I Googled it.

Talk about coming late to the party. I might as well have Googled “Steam Engine When Start?”

I learned that the powers that be in the serene and stretchy community have been at this for a while. There has been a “World Yoga Championship” with unwieldy and injury-inducing categories for men, women and teams for years.

Are there spectators and do they yell things?

“Nice serenity, Ashley!” Or “ You call that a sun salutation, Jeremy?”

Yoga has clearly gone to the dreaded “next level.”

I don’t want to go to the next level. I want to lie quietly on a mat. Rest time for grownups under the guise of meditation and ligament elongation.

I thought I was set.

But now I just don’t think I’m competitive enough for yoga.