Downward Dog
I farted. Right in the middle of yoga. It was awful.
Well, back up a bit. I finally decided to try out the yoga classes at my local gym - they have, you see, the benefit of being free - so last night, against all odds, I headed out of my house at 7 in the evening to go mess up my body for a while. I did my usual half-hour of cardio on a crosstrainer, worked on my still-store biceps and triceps, and then… Well, actually, then I noticed educatedidiot, who I recognized vaguely from his user icon. I sauntered over and said hello.
Then I realized that my journal is potentially really, really scary. Holy shit, I realized. What the fuck am I doing? "Hi, I'm the gay guy on your friends list who writes all that bioporn"…? Oh my god, I probably seem like such a freak. A short conversation ensued, which he seemed to take with good humor. I accidentally got him kicked off his weight machine by a testy woman, then excused myself and hustled to my first yoga class in seven or eight years. You are, I informed myself on the way, Such a dork.
They dimmed the lights in the activities area a bit for yoga, and soothing, vaguely Middle Eastern music was played. I was last in line to select a mat and get into place, and as it happened, my chosen spot placed a large cement column directly in my line of sight of the instructor.
"Is there anyone who's here for the first time?" the instructor asked vaguely. He noticed that a few hands went up. "Oh. Well. We're going to keep doing what we'd been doing, move on to some more advanced things…" I couldn't tell if it was my imagination that, during the course of the next hour, he only reached out to correct the positioning of the young, attractive women in the class.
Glancing around the room, I came to a horrible realization. Oh, shit. All of the guys in here are way better-looking than me. And they've all got that "I don't work out, I'm just healthy" body. They're probably vegetarians. Oh, god, they're probably vegans. Oh, fuck, I'm the only fat hairy doesn't-know-what-he's-doing guy in this room. Mentally, I willed a fatter, harier, even-less-able man to walk through the door.
Then I had a second, more pleasant realization. All of the guys in here are way better-looking than me...
I decided that, since I couldn't see the instructor, I'd try to copy the incredibly tall, fit guy in the corner who seemed way ahead of everyone else. The last time I'd taken large group yoga classes, I'd gotten very frustrated by my inability keep up; this time, I made it a point not to put any expectations on myself. I already knew there were certain stretches I simply cannot perform. My hamstrings and pretty much all the muscles in the backs of my legs are too tight. Sitting on the floor with my legs straight out at a 90% angle from my body hurts. I can't bend over and touch my toes, not because of my tummy, but because my legs burn with agony when I try it. So… low-expectation boy, that was me.
We did arm-stretches, and I was fine. I was able to bend over further than I'd expected. My balance sucked, but I'm guessing that will improve over time. Then we started stretches actively involving our legs. "High table" - essentially a push-up position - was fine for me. "Low table" - sort of a push-up position just an inch off the floor was unbelievably difficult… but I did it. Then we were asked to assume "downward dog," which is feet flat on the floor, palms flat on the floor, butt pointed to the sky. Position looks like an inverted "V." I couldn't do it - I couldn't get my heels to touch the floor. This is all right, I told myself. You'll develop the flexibility. I assumed downward dog on the balls of my feet. It was a surprisingly heavy workout - I was sweating.
Then I farted.
It was just a subtle little squeak, in the middle of the calm, relaxing yoga environment. To me, thought, it sounded like a thunderclap - I probably turned three different shades over the course of a second and a half. Worse, my body clearly wasn't done with the farting, but I stared at it firmly and threatened to beat it with a rolled-up newspaper.
The workout got harder. Oddly, the stretch that really did me in was essentially a lunge with my arms extended: I simply couldn't keep my arms up for that long. I couldn't help but notice, what with all the mirrors around, that I seemed to be the only person in the room having that particular problem. A related exercise left me having severe trouble breathing. I so did not feel like the coolest person in that room.
Another exercise, however, encouraged us to basically support ourselves on our upper backs and arms while pointing our toes at the sky, something of a "J" shape. I was just fine with it, but I saw some other people in the room struggling - people who'd been just fine with downward dog.
Muah-ha-ha-ha, muthafuckaz! I chortled gleefully. Watch me leave yo asses behind!
And then, as the crowning glory of my restored self-esteem, somebody farted. It was a little bare "squeak," but I knew. We were all struggling. We had different weaknesses, but we had them. I was not the only inflexible, struggling, out-of-breath, glasses-falling-off moron in the room.
Deep down, we all needed to fart.
Well, back up a bit. I finally decided to try out the yoga classes at my local gym - they have, you see, the benefit of being free - so last night, against all odds, I headed out of my house at 7 in the evening to go mess up my body for a while. I did my usual half-hour of cardio on a crosstrainer, worked on my still-store biceps and triceps, and then… Well, actually, then I noticed educatedidiot, who I recognized vaguely from his user icon. I sauntered over and said hello.
Then I realized that my journal is potentially really, really scary. Holy shit, I realized. What the fuck am I doing? "Hi, I'm the gay guy on your friends list who writes all that bioporn"…? Oh my god, I probably seem like such a freak. A short conversation ensued, which he seemed to take with good humor. I accidentally got him kicked off his weight machine by a testy woman, then excused myself and hustled to my first yoga class in seven or eight years. You are, I informed myself on the way, Such a dork.
They dimmed the lights in the activities area a bit for yoga, and soothing, vaguely Middle Eastern music was played. I was last in line to select a mat and get into place, and as it happened, my chosen spot placed a large cement column directly in my line of sight of the instructor.
"Is there anyone who's here for the first time?" the instructor asked vaguely. He noticed that a few hands went up. "Oh. Well. We're going to keep doing what we'd been doing, move on to some more advanced things…" I couldn't tell if it was my imagination that, during the course of the next hour, he only reached out to correct the positioning of the young, attractive women in the class.
Glancing around the room, I came to a horrible realization. Oh, shit. All of the guys in here are way better-looking than me. And they've all got that "I don't work out, I'm just healthy" body. They're probably vegetarians. Oh, god, they're probably vegans. Oh, fuck, I'm the only fat hairy doesn't-know-what-he's-doing guy in this room. Mentally, I willed a fatter, harier, even-less-able man to walk through the door.
Then I had a second, more pleasant realization. All of the guys in here are way better-looking than me...
I decided that, since I couldn't see the instructor, I'd try to copy the incredibly tall, fit guy in the corner who seemed way ahead of everyone else. The last time I'd taken large group yoga classes, I'd gotten very frustrated by my inability keep up; this time, I made it a point not to put any expectations on myself. I already knew there were certain stretches I simply cannot perform. My hamstrings and pretty much all the muscles in the backs of my legs are too tight. Sitting on the floor with my legs straight out at a 90% angle from my body hurts. I can't bend over and touch my toes, not because of my tummy, but because my legs burn with agony when I try it. So… low-expectation boy, that was me.
We did arm-stretches, and I was fine. I was able to bend over further than I'd expected. My balance sucked, but I'm guessing that will improve over time. Then we started stretches actively involving our legs. "High table" - essentially a push-up position - was fine for me. "Low table" - sort of a push-up position just an inch off the floor was unbelievably difficult… but I did it. Then we were asked to assume "downward dog," which is feet flat on the floor, palms flat on the floor, butt pointed to the sky. Position looks like an inverted "V." I couldn't do it - I couldn't get my heels to touch the floor. This is all right, I told myself. You'll develop the flexibility. I assumed downward dog on the balls of my feet. It was a surprisingly heavy workout - I was sweating.
Then I farted.
It was just a subtle little squeak, in the middle of the calm, relaxing yoga environment. To me, thought, it sounded like a thunderclap - I probably turned three different shades over the course of a second and a half. Worse, my body clearly wasn't done with the farting, but I stared at it firmly and threatened to beat it with a rolled-up newspaper.
The workout got harder. Oddly, the stretch that really did me in was essentially a lunge with my arms extended: I simply couldn't keep my arms up for that long. I couldn't help but notice, what with all the mirrors around, that I seemed to be the only person in the room having that particular problem. A related exercise left me having severe trouble breathing. I so did not feel like the coolest person in that room.
Another exercise, however, encouraged us to basically support ourselves on our upper backs and arms while pointing our toes at the sky, something of a "J" shape. I was just fine with it, but I saw some other people in the room struggling - people who'd been just fine with downward dog.
Muah-ha-ha-ha, muthafuckaz! I chortled gleefully. Watch me leave yo asses behind!
And then, as the crowning glory of my restored self-esteem, somebody farted. It was a little bare "squeak," but I knew. We were all struggling. We had different weaknesses, but we had them. I was not the only inflexible, struggling, out-of-breath, glasses-falling-off moron in the room.
Deep down, we all needed to fart.