I took a yoga class. I have to. It’s part of my job as the Yoga Husband.
Here’s how yesterday’s yoga class went:
I go into a level-1 class. The class starts and I am more-or-less able to follow the instructions. That being said, I’m also: breathing through my mouth like a caveman, sweating like a fat man at an all-you-can-eat restaurant, and I’m holding in what feels like a massive fart.
I try to breathe through my nose. The room smells like a beached whale. Back to mouth breathing.
We are all in downward dog, and the teacher tells us to take 5 breaths.
Oh crap. The teacher is heading towards me. I make an effort to not make my I’m-in-terrible-pain face, and to straighten my crooked body.
Teacher: ‘take your sitting bone back and up’
Sure, I think to myself, and send signals to what I think are my butt muscles.
Teacher: ‘you can bend your knees if you want’
Teacher: ‘does that feel better?’
I respond with a guttural ‘uheh’
Teacher: ‘great. now you really want to tuck your belly in…’
I concentrate as hard as I can on squeezing my belly in. The fart finally comes out with a pleasant rumble. Maybe squeezing was not what she meant. I don’t care. Dear god, please make this end.
Now I feel bad for the other students. It’s been more than enough time for 10 breaths, and now the room smells like a beached whale and my gas.
Teacher: ‘you should feel like another being, outside of your body, is pulling you up’
I quietly pray that that being is the angel of death.
I don’t make any noticeable changes in my pose, but the teacher says ‘very good’ anyways. Just when I think this is about to be over, my sweaty palms slip and I plant my face in the mat.
I look down and there’s a little blood on the mat. The teacher sees the blood and is unfazed.
Teacher: ‘the blood is your body’s way of reminding you of your humanity’