The Dreaded Yoga Fart

I've been on a mission.

My youngest daughter, Claire is an 18-month ball of craziness. 

In an effort to stay sane, I've been taking my brood to the gym every morning to swim, take a class, and in general, to get our ya ya's out.  And I do this, while conditioning Claire to spend at least one hour in the nursery so that we can live in peace.

After a hard early morning run, I thought that taking a relaxing yoga class was exactly what I needed.

Purple yoga mat in hand, I quickly made my way into the studio and prayed that I wouldn't get paged to pick up a screaming toddler.

No teacher in sight, I joined the other 60+ year old women and placed my mat in the circle of trust.

And then he walked in.  Sweet Mary Mother of God.  Are you kidding me right now...how is anybody supposed to focus, the hottie yoga teacher is on the scene?

Is he gay?  Is he metro?  WTF?

Mind reeling, I thought, screw it.  I don't care what I look like, I'm getting my Downward Dog on and taking this one hour for myself.

And then it happened.  Instructed to lay flat on our backs and to lift our asses high in the air while we swing our legs over our heads and push our feet to the back wall....I landed in what I thought was a perfect "Plow" pose. 

Feeling a little queesy and wondering if the cream in my coffee was making my innards turn to mush, I heard foot steps.  Shit, he's correcting us...ass and all.  And that's when he pressed on my lower back and I

farted in his face.

And it was no delicate "paaahhhh."  No, it was a gutteral, truck driver, try to clench your ass only to make it worse FAARRRTTT.

And then, I was fucked.  With 25 minutes still left to go in the class, I never resumed eye contact.  My circle of trust was broken with the other ladies.  I was the stinky black sheep.

The only redeeming detail I learned is that he was a sub for the regular instructor.

Sure as shit, I'll never be returning to that class.  The good news is that Claire did fine in the nursery.  So, at least I've got that going for me.

Fumbling Through Yoga

I used to take a lot of Bikram or hot yoga.

I didn't fancy myself a yogi, but I could endure temperatures of over 100 degrees and do a decent Camel pose.

That was in my 20's, when I had both disposable time and money.

So, on Mother's Day, I thought it would be a cool gift of time for my mom (who is fitter than I am) and me to take a yoga class together.

Really...how hard could it be?  Vinyasa Shimasa.

I walked in, rolled out my mat, and was greeted by the darling, seemingly 22-year old girl who would lovingly guide me through poses that would serve as nourishment for my weary runners body.

So, when she said (in some sort of Canadian/British/Australian accent):

"I want you to root your hands deeply into the earth, find your focal point, concentrate on the breath, and very slowly pull from your belly to move into handstand....no cheating...no thrusting the legs up as to get momentum...this is coming from deep inside...engage...trust the process."

Trust what process?  As I began to try to engage my innards, I had a spiritual aha that felt more like me trying to keep in a fart while I swallowed my pride watching my 59-year old mother pop into a handstand like it was her job...while I couldn't go up to save my life.

Reaching over to me, she said, "I'm going to give you a boost and I want you to simultaneously, pull forth everything you've got."  With a primal grunt and scream, I went up while my arms were shaking and my head was dizzy.

At the end of class, I turned to her and said, "Is it possible to ever retain a strong core (enough to do a fucking handstand from scratch) after having three kids?"  To which she replied, "I have three children... so, yes."

Of course you do...moments of humiliation and love only on Mother's Day...here's to trusting the process.