Saturday, February 9, 2019

Trying Not to Fart

So, now that I'm old I find some part of me is always gimpy. It varies...pretty much on a daily basis...depending on what I've been doing. Sometimes it's my shoulder, sometimes it's my knee, sometimes it's my back...actually, it's always my back, so that seems kinda normal. But it's all annoying.

My old friend Char, of undesirable snackage fame, kept touting the benefits of yoga to me. Specifically, a MyoFascial Release class...where, basically, you lay around on balls of various sizes and levels of firmness. I was, admittedly, skeptical of the whole shebang.

I tried yoga before and it was just okay. Nothing great, nothing horrible, just average...and everybody was so fucking serious about it. I have trouble being serious...especially when it seems required...like church, or funerals. There's just something about people being so solemn that makes me want to laugh. I'm sure it's some kind of weird personality disorder.

Imagine my surprise when I fucking loved it!!! Nobody, I mean nobody, could have been more surprised than me. Who'd a thunk that laying on top of balls strategically placed could bring so much relief to my aching body???

The rubbery instructor, Yogi Leslie, who's a little slip of a thing with nary an ounce of fat on her entire body can twist herself like a pretzel. She's very passionate about what she does and sometimes I still find myself wanting to laugh.

YL will tell us to think about the "quality of your thoughts" as we're breathing deeply, eyes closed, lying there on top of hard round rubber balls poking into the muscles of our shoulders...trying to relax. WTF does that even mean, I think to myself??? The "quality" of my thoughts??? I have to worry about whether or not my thoughts have some important quality now? At times like this, I find myself trying to breathe really deeply so I won't start laughing...or worse...snorking like a pig.

Yesterday at class we were using squishier rubber balls about the size of a  small cantaloupe. The ball was positioned between the ribcage and hip. So I'm laying there on my back, fat, dumb, and happily trying to relax...when I start to feel gas, seemingly from where the ball is pressing into my back, start winding its way to the nearest point of exit.

In a room filled to capacity with fellow ball layers seeking some small measure of muscle relief, I'm trapped like a rat, frozen motionless. Trying to prevent the escape of air the cheeks of my butt are practically welded together when a miracle occurs. The seemingly giant but probably minuscule bubble of air goes back to wherever it came from. I'm still not sure how that works because it never seems like you feel it going back up the same way you feel it coming down. But I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and I'm able to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It's a good thing too because just after this the next thing I hear coming from YL's voice is "think about the quality of your thoughts" and I'm fortunately able to breathe really deeply so I don't laugh out loud...It's the Stoopidist Thing.