The practice of yoga has proved rather torturous for me. Rather than feeling at-one and centered, all I can think is “Don’t fart, don’t fart, don’t fart.” In fact, it used to be part of my schtick, “The thing about yoga is it’s an exercise in trying not to pass gas.”
That is, until last week, when I gave it another chance.
I’ve offended people before with my rant, one woman in particular who had spent many years devoting her life to yoga. Naturally she wasn’t too fond of me reducing it to a fart joke. In part, though, I launched into my routine because of that.
The type of person in point: My brother and I were at a café in Kathmandu last year and while walking out of the restroom I passed a woman who clearly looked Western, she could’ve passed for my cousin. “Hello,” I said, acknowledging her presence. Disdainful look on her face, she indignantly said, “Namaste!” The god in her definitely chastised the god in me. She would not have been amused by my yoga schpeal.
The thing is, I’m all about centered wellness and meditation. Last week a close friend asked if I wanted to join her in a free yoga class. Why not, it had been a few years since my last yoga endeavor. The entire experience was refreshing, energizing and all around wonderful.