I joined a yoga studio last Tuesday.
Following a year of minimal physical activity, save the 7 minute morning and evening walk to and from North Acton station, I decided it was about time I traded my soft self in for something a little more ‘toned’. I toiled between two options: Gym membership? Or Yoga membership? And even though an unlimited monthly yoga membership is £50 MORE each month than a Virgin Active membership, I decided to go with the yoga since I would definitely enjoy it more, and hence go more, and hopefully get my money’s worth and a nice toned bootay too.
After some research on the Internets I decided to go with a studio in Notting Hill. Basically the mid-point between my new job in Mayfair and my new house in North Acton. I was a little concerned about fitting in, like, should I buy a whole new yoga outfit? Should I get a mat? Should I stop shaving my legs and armpit hair and start using natural deodorants? I was scared and unsure. My workmates joked to me that the classes would be full of yummy mummies, which didn’t make me feel any more confident about the situation. However, I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at my first class to see a variety of body shapes, ages, and abilities. Everyone was friendly and very welcoming and there were only a couple yummy mummies.
I chose a spot near the back of the class and focused on my breathing. It was a level 1-2 Ashtanga style class. I was feeling good; breathing, stretching, feeling the open space I was creating and only once while in down dog position (for what felt like the 50th time) did I feel like it might be a little too much to handle for my severely out of shape body.
We then started to slow things down. I was feeling energized and confident. The instructor told us we were going to go into the shoulder stand position now. I copied the person next to me. Lifting my legs up into the air and using my shoulders to brace myself while bringing my elbows in under my back. We then inverted our legs down behind our heads. 10 deep, balanced breaths, then slowly back down into a seated position.
And then it happened.
Or flatus vaginalised.
Or, for those of your who still don’t know what I’m talking about…I farted from my vagina.
Oh yes, not once, but TWICE.
Queue gut wrenching, soul defeating MORTIFICATION. However, I put on my best poker face and just pretended like nothing happened and if it did happen and people around me heard it, it sure as hell did not come from me (or rather, my vajayjay).
I’ve since been to 6 more classes and I’m happy to report that it appears to have been a onetime occurrence.
Oh, right, so in case you were wondering, I obviously still live in London, have moved to an awesome new house, have a great new job, am growing out my bangs, and have fallen in love with an English man. Okay… I think we’re up to speed now.