Someone let go a fart at yoga the other day. In an everyday situation it would probably have gone unnoticed, because it was a discreet, very lady-like fart, except this was a yoga class and we were all very, very quiet, concentrating on our breathing and all that stuff. Lucky it wasn’t a smelly fart, hey?
So because we are all such evolved yoga devotees, not a sound was made. The fart was ignored. There was not a snigger, a smirk or even a guffaw. And the only reason that we knew who did it was because the poor little pet picked up her towel and ran, nay bolted, out the door.
She was one of those pretty Gen Y things, and probably wasn’t used to bodily functions being on such public display. She’d obviously never had to spread her legs for a strange person and had to push a baby out. Well, actually that is pretty presumptuous of me–who knows what that girl gets up to on a weekend, but given her great figure, there wouldn’t be a baby involved.
I’m surprised there isn’t more of it you know. Farting in yoga class that is. For heaven’s sake your body is contorted into this strange positions, you’re keeping your knees enthusiastic (come on knees, you can do it), you’re unhunching your shoulders, you’re having a deep and meaningful conversation with your toes, who can remember to keep their anal sphincter nice and tight?
The poor Gen Y bolter should be pleased she didn’t emit the fanny fart. That the one that you get when you wave your legs around in the air and forget to “engage your pubic muscle”. I actually have no idea how to engage my pubic muscle, but I’m guessing that it’s a bit like those Kegal exercises you’re supposed to do at traffic lights so you don’t wet yourself when you run, laugh, sneeze or cough–God I love being a woman.
I clench those muscles like a Swedish porn star when I’m doing my shoulder stand. No fanny fart for me. Image
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