Friday, October 20, 2006
I go to yoga most days and have been doing so since I got here. I've done it before in England and a few other places but never so intensively nor with such pleasure. The place here is a big studio loft overlooking one of the main streets in Toronto and is what a bored copywriter would call 'an oasis of calm', although I personally like it when a police siren or a mugging outside momentarily cuts into the atmosphere. These are the upsides, along with all the new moves i'm learning, some of the music they play and the fact that 99.999999999999999998% of the other participants are women (most of whom are not untasty, as they say). I admit to having problems concentrating on the yoga but it's for other reasons too: I have no attention span, my head is full of shit, I struggle with some of the moves but most of all it's because for most of the 90 minutes a day that i'm doing this I am in a perpetual battle with the bellicose army of farts that threaten to peep out from my bum on every downward-facing dog.
I know im not doing myself any favours because I typically go to the back of the room to do my yoga. Though it means I can fail to do a simple move without being seen and scorned by all the beautiful ladeez, it also means I am forced to face anything up to 18 of these womens' perfectly taut arses staring straight back at me, each with a beady cyclopean eye and pouty vertical mouth barely hidden by lycra (a textile that men quickly evolved the ability to see through, having managed to fetishize so it's now less a barrier to nudity and more an enhancement to the female form). This can make things hard. But the real reason I go to the back of the class is neither shyness nor perviness, but a strong desire not to let one off in someone's face. I am convinced that if I go to the front it WILL happen. And with the simple act of gassing into someone's face in an intimate, nay sacred space for all to see, hear and smell, I will be forced to run facefirst at the huge bay windows that look out onto the road below. I will not stop as I smack through the glass, I will not stop as I flail bloodily through the air half-shredded from the shards of glass and scorn, I will not stop when I hit the ground three floors below in relief that I've got away so quickly, compounded by the joy that I am dying rapidly and perhaps that not everybody in the class might have noticed what just happened. If by some stroke of luck I should not be dead, or indeed that I may have inadvertently and literally hit the ground running, I will not stop until I find a big fucking tram and I swear to you on the Bhagavad-Gita, King James Edition, I will throw myself under it with glee and, yes, even love.
So I'm there yesterday and as I go into Full Cobra for a split second I relax control of my valve (paradoxically since it's a real cheek-clencher), a little air-poo pops out and clips the air. No-one notices but I'm panicking because I can feel more brewing.
(Did I mention I eat a very vegetarian-inspired diet- only eat animal when I get a lust for it, usually about once a week with a lot of cabbage, beans and dried fruit?)
The pot starts to boil over just as we're asked to sit down on our mats and shift our but-tocks. I find my hand going down into my crack and with a mild stroke of genius, i muffle the ensuing torrent with my fingers. It's like putting a finger to your lips and whispering and im so pleased with myself.
And then the thought strikes me: "How have I got through life without knowing about this technique?" I think back to all the classical concerts I attended, the boring and bean-heavy family meals with guests, the endless State Dinners sat next to the Queen, my audience with The Pope - all of them taking a terrible toll on my anal clench. Does everyone else do this and I havent been told?
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I know im not doing myself any favours because I typically go to the back of the room to do my yoga. Though it means I can fail to do a simple move without being seen and scorned by all the beautiful ladeez, it also means I am forced to face anything up to 18 of these womens' perfectly taut arses staring straight back at me, each with a beady cyclopean eye and pouty vertical mouth barely hidden by lycra (a textile that men quickly evolved the ability to see through, having managed to fetishize so it's now less a barrier to nudity and more an enhancement to the female form). This can make things hard. But the real reason I go to the back of the class is neither shyness nor perviness, but a strong desire not to let one off in someone's face. I am convinced that if I go to the front it WILL happen. And with the simple act of gassing into someone's face in an intimate, nay sacred space for all to see, hear and smell, I will be forced to run facefirst at the huge bay windows that look out onto the road below. I will not stop as I smack through the glass, I will not stop as I flail bloodily through the air half-shredded from the shards of glass and scorn, I will not stop when I hit the ground three floors below in relief that I've got away so quickly, compounded by the joy that I am dying rapidly and perhaps that not everybody in the class might have noticed what just happened. If by some stroke of luck I should not be dead, or indeed that I may have inadvertently and literally hit the ground running, I will not stop until I find a big fucking tram and I swear to you on the Bhagavad-Gita, King James Edition, I will throw myself under it with glee and, yes, even love.
So I'm there yesterday and as I go into Full Cobra for a split second I relax control of my valve (paradoxically since it's a real cheek-clencher), a little air-poo pops out and clips the air. No-one notices but I'm panicking because I can feel more brewing.
(Did I mention I eat a very vegetarian-inspired diet- only eat animal when I get a lust for it, usually about once a week with a lot of cabbage, beans and dried fruit?)
The pot starts to boil over just as we're asked to sit down on our mats and shift our but-tocks. I find my hand going down into my crack and with a mild stroke of genius, i muffle the ensuing torrent with my fingers. It's like putting a finger to your lips and whispering and im so pleased with myself.
And then the thought strikes me: "How have I got through life without knowing about this technique?" I think back to all the classical concerts I attended, the boring and bean-heavy family meals with guests, the endless State Dinners sat next to the Queen, my audience with The Pope - all of them taking a terrible toll on my anal clench. Does everyone else do this and I havent been told?
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