Did I ever tell you guys about the time I got kicked out of yoga class? No? Well, grab a seat and listen up folks.
A very long time ago, I was in excellent physical shape. When I say excellent physical shape I mean that I could crack walnuts with my ass and had the legs of a powerful cat. Damn, I looked really good back then. Not good enough to get up off my ass and work out now but good enough to miss how I looked for sure.
I loved going to my yoga class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. The light scent of some kind of (what’s that shit called? Aromas? Aromatics?) oh yeah, aromatherapy candles and soft Tibetan (never could figure that one out) music playing gently while we assumed many positions. It was so relaxing and just filled me with such inner peace that I never missed a class. Until the problem arose.
“What problem?” you may ask. The problem that all women who have given birth to one or more earthlings have – the lack of muscular control. Not actually lack of, but the inability to care anymore when it happens or will to control it.
I’m speaking of flatulence ladies. Those sneaky little toots that find their way out so many times during the day that you barely even notice them anymore – shit just happens. Especially during the downward facing dog. No matter what, that particular position will squeeze out anything that is inside just a brewin’. No matter what. It’s just life.
Someone mentioned on Facebook the other day that it is acceptable to fart during yoga. Is it really? Then why did I get kicked out of my favorite yoga class for just that? WTF? Oh, that’s right, it’s not the farting itself – the act thereof, it’s the uncontrollable laughter that follows.
Let me break this story down for ya:
My mother and I started going to this yoga class and we always put our mats together so we were side by side. During the class, little toots were unacknowledged and just basically ignored until the fateful day that bent over and ripped the biggest, loudest, juiciest fart ever and my mom just died laughing and couldn’t control herself. I really tired to keep a straight face and keep going with the rest of the class, but my mom just collapsed and then got up and walked out. I thought to myself – Cool! I’ll stay because everyone thought it was her anyway. My secret is safe and this is a safe place. Namaste.
The next class came and again, I nearly shit myself when the dog came around. This time, I collapsed on the floor with my mom and giggled so hysterically that I couldn’t breathe, let alone keep up with the rest of the class. I mean, it was a good one and yes, I am about 10 years old because I still think that farts are funny. Don’t judge.
After class my yoga instructor approached me and asked that if I could not control myself to please refrain from joining class again. I told her simply that I couldn’t help it, it wasn’t me, it was that damn downward dog! She looked me straight in the eye and said “Oh it’s not the flatulence, it’s your inability to ignore it and move on.”
I started to laugh so hard that she just turned and walked away. I guess my secret wasn’t as safe as I thought. After that, every time I saw that yoga instructor at the gym I smiled brightly and yelled “Namaste Ma’am!” Except I pronounced it: Na-Maste (rhymes with paste). I bet she hated me.
And that, boys and girls, is how I got kicked out of yoga class.