She's like the wind

Once a week I rush to a yoga class, running past all the people who work out as a religion and don't mind being naked in a public locker room. I guess I was raised that we have bodies so that we have a place to put our brains, so I was never that athletic. I have muscles, though I very strategically hide them under layers of chocolate-induced fat.

So I go to yoga, a discipline that is really great about acceptance at wherever you are in the practice. There's a good balance of experience in the class, from those who have done this for decades to those who topple over a lot. I'm in the middle, towards the toppling part of the spectrum.

I try to eat long before class so that I can get through it without interruption. But, alas, today I was concentrating so diligently on getting a pose correct that I let one go. Loudly. For the whole class to hear (but not smell, thankfully). I was giggling, beet-red, mortified.

This is why I don't like working out in public. I see women in cute little outfits, perfect hair and makeup, like it's supposed to be a refined outing. But I know me. I know that, with all that movement, I will be gaseous, sweaty and stinky.

Nuschler is the only one I want to share this with. He understands since, though he is unable to sweat, he is usually gaseous and prefers to be stinky.

Song: This is from Dirty Dancing, a movie that Bec and I conned our parents into letting us go to. There is a sad remake of it on the radio at the moment. It's not Patrick Sway-Z so what's the point?