Yogurt

Yesterday a woman farted on me during my yoga class. Not near me or in front of me, but on me. We were rocking a partner pose in which she did a resting backbend on my back while I was in child pose. Pppffffft. Ppfft.

And then a sigh. No laughter, no remorse, no beano.

Other than being farted upon, I enjoy visiting this yoga studio once or twice each week. The classes last an hour and a half, which is the perfect amount of time to stretch and contort yourself in a big room with buttery lighting and Nag Champa burning like there's a bottomless closet of incense in the back. I was allowed free passage to another studio when my college was still open, but the classes were above the swimming pool and next to an aerobics class. Finding your core is difficult to the tune of thumping techno beats. That particular class seemed to attract the gassiest of the Hamptonites.

Yoga is what prompted me to visit a chiropractor designated by my insurance company. I got wrenched in an accident a coupla months ago and was feeling lazy about my occasionally aching back. I guess the point of yoga is to use muscles that tend to go ignored as we rotate through the habitual motions of our everyday lives, so stretching past my normal pain-blocking activities gave way to a whiny ache. I took my emergency room X-rays to the doctor and he showed me how my spine is curving in the direction opposite of normal. The adjustments are nice, if not deafening. I went this afternoon and am now incredibly sore and nursing a wicked headache. And all I can think is, what a perfect excuse to lay around and watch bad sitcoms.

When he tells me to breathe out and pushes on my back, I'm always afraid I'll fart. Or he'll fart. The situation is a potential hotbed for flatulence.