Farting in Yoga Class

29 Dec 2009 2 Comments

by hellodance in Los Angeles Tags: , , , ,

It’s one of my greatest fears that I’ll be the one that farts in yoga class.

I recently joined a gym after many years of vitriolic hatred for gyms and all they represent. During those years, I’m sad to admit, I enjoyed a regular smoking habit, drank too much whiskey, got into fights with men in bars, and my belly region expanded – and not in a fun way. After admitting to myself that I might have a small problem (I realized as much afterwalking through a grocery store and at the sight of Jameson’s Irish Deliciousness, I salivated uncontrollably while wiping the sweat from my palms and calming an excited heartrate), I decided that I’d do something about it.

I quit everything. I don’t go out. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink any alcohol except wine and beer. I go to the farmers market every weekend, sometimes twice. I cook for myself. I write. And I joined a gym. Because nothing can replicate the seratonin produced by drinking alcohol better than some good old fashioned excercise.

I absolutely refuse to do any kind of physical activity that I don’t like, so I had to choose something that would enjoy, instead of gazelling on the eliptical machine or stepping on a stepper. One of those things is yoga. Mostly because I don’t think there is anything graceful about yoga. I’m a very self-concious person, and the gym doesn’t help matters. It’s filled with rail thin actresses or beefcake actors and they all look so determined and lovely flexing those muscles and working those abs. I’m just some poor schmuck that doesn’t want to encourage a drinking problem, so I’m pacifying urges of temptation by tiring out my muscles.

I’m into my fourth week of classes, so I guess my classmates and I are getting rather comfortable with each other (regardless of the fact that none of us look each other in the eye… or maybe that’s just me). I really like my teacher, and I especially like the music that he plays during the more vigorous parts of the class, Erykah Badu, Air and Zero Seven. There are about twenty of us awkwardly bringing our hands to our heart chakras at the same time, doing our “vinyasas”: downward facing dog, plank, chutarunga, upward facing dog, repeat, legs shaking all the while.

About fifteen minutes before the class finishes, we start doing, I guess, restorative poses? I dunno. I’m probably just making it up, but one of my favorites of these is “childs pose.” You sit on your knees and bring your head all the way to the floor in front of you and push your hands above your head as far as they will go. I learned that if you ever feel dizzy or light

headed, going into this pose will make you feel better. As the class eases into the child’s pose, everyone’s butt goes up in the air, the music gets a little quieter, and if there were any belabored breaths, they’ve calmed themselves. It is the absolute worst time to let ‘er rip, but it’s the pose that most encourages it.

Which is what happened across the room in class this past week. A little, high-pitched and undulating, “Phheeewww!” from somewhere to my right. I was looking at the floor so I couldn’t see from whence the fart came. No one knew what to do. If the room could have gotten any quieter, it did for a split second. I know what I was thinking and I’m sure I’m not the only one: “Oh dear God, it could have been me!” So of course I clenched my upraised buttcheeks a little tighter so as not to let anything through.

The teacher was a gem. He laughed and said, “It’s ok! That’s what yoga is all about! Letting go! Let it all go, let it all out! Go ahead!” So we all took the liberty to laugh and unclench our buttcheeks . Only just a little bit.

It would have made a better story if we all let out a resounding chorus of flatulence, but you have to realize, this is still Los Angeles. It’s a town of pretty people, and pretty people don’t fart. The guy that did was probably the ugly one.

Originally posted here.

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