I received a lot of response from my column on yoga last week so I thought it would be prudent to give you an update.
Undeterred by my experience at my inaugural yoga class I went back again. . . and again.
This time the experience was much improved. I know this because I was getting a lot of attention from the yoga instructor, who was obviously totally into me.
First, when I arrived at the class I flopped on the floor like everyone else. Then the instructor walked over to me and she said, “Okay, super buttocks.”
The comment took me off guard and I may have blushed a bit there, but one thing I will say is this instructor knows her backsides.
I was convinced she was totally into me when she would wander by and take a moment to pat my back, rub my leg or tap my tummy.
To be honest I did not think yoga was supposed to be so touchy-feely, but who am I to argue with my Yoda? Especially one who keeps telling me “super buttocks.”
What was most surprising was my wife was on the mat right next me and she did not seem to mind this lady in tight yoga pants fondling me like we were in pottery class.
In fact, if anything, she was encouraging it by continuing to drag me to yoga class. The things I do for my wife.
Bouyed with newfound confidence and knowing I was obviously the teacher’s pet I went through our routine believing I was becoming a yoga master, but then disaster.
Yep, it happened.
I farted.
As I told you I would.
I just didn’t fart in my own little corner, oh no, it fluttered out right in some young lady’s face.
As we did a balance pose, fittingly called the half moon, a wee toot snuck out. She got the whole moon.
Of course I carried on like nothing happened hoping she didn’t notice. When she quickly moved to another spot I had my answer.
I also had another answer, now I know what the Yoda meant by my super buttocks — and it was not a compliment.
Namaste.
