When we arrived at Osho International Meditation Resort, my students and I had been on a plane for 18 hours and a bus for eight more. We’d come to Osho for a spiritual experience. Osho, the name of the resort and its deceased founder’s adopted appellation, mixed Hindu philosophy and New Age practices. Reviled by some and revered by others for its idiosyncratic teachings—dynamic meditations included shouting, dancing, laughing and shaking--the ashram attracts thousands of seekers each year.

After registering and taking an HIV-blood test, visitors must purchase robes. All wear maroon during the day and white for evening meditation. The sales clerk at the resort store handed me a boat-neck, A-line shift. Too tired to argue, I accepted the matronly style.

But later, when I saw the alternatives—sleeveless, long sleeved, scoop neck, high neck, I wanted something other than the one I’d initially accepted. It was too late to return the maroon robe I’d worn on our first full day, but I ‘d kept the white robe, reserved for the evening meeting, in its pristine packaging. But when I went to the store to exchange it, I was met with resistance. It can’t be done, they told me. The purchase is already in the computer.

How to describe that first day at Osho? At the morning introductory session, I had to dance, shake, pant and scream in front of strangers. I’d watched a film on Osho etiquette that instructed me not to fart, cough or sneeze during evening meetings. I was told how to ladle food into my bowl, what not to carry on my person (cell phones and cameras), and when and where to eat. In short, I’d forfeited my autonomy for the Osho experience.

And now, when they would not give me the robe I wanted, I threw a fit.

When pleading didn’t work, I turned nasty. Why couldn’t I have the robe I wanted? Weren’t they to help me? Didn’t they want me to be happy? The manager of the store tried arguing, but faced with my persistence, he caved. Better to capitulate than give into bad karma.

I was happy. My new white robe was high-collared and sleeveless, and I felt pretty when I wore it. But pretty is as pretty does and who was she who wanted a robe badly enough to behave so abominably? And why was I at a meditation retreat if I could not even control a petty desire?

I went back the next day and apologized. Assuming the Osho experience was working, the manager hugged me, and I hugged him back.

I had the robe I wanted; the spiritual experience could wait.