“Fitness, flatulence, and the fear of fucking up…”

yoga-fart

I hope you enjoyed your first glance into my life as I explained how a mere shopping trip to a local retail store nearly got me sacked by a couple of loaves of ‘Maggie’s Incredible Bread’… Now that we know each other a little better, it’s time that I get a little personal with you.

As you all probably know Los Angeles is the epicenter of all people fit and good looking… It’s true, why else would I move here? What you probably don’t realize is that good looks and a healthy lifestyle often come with a pretty hefty price tag… Now I’m not just talking about the price of your Hermes bag or your Christian Louboutin shoes (Dorothy Wang)… But I am talking about the price of embarrassment you feel at your morning yoga class, and the disruptive noises in your evening prayer group that take your focus away from a higher power and into a lower abdominals… I’m even talking about the nutritional value of the composted product turned to air that you eat coming from the food processor riding in front of you on bike 7 at your afternoon Soulcycle class. That’s right, I’m talking about the ultimate claim to shame… Public farting.

I mean, we have all been woken up from a dead sleep by the random demons leaving our significant other in the dark hours of the night. However, it is a completely different story in public when a complete stranger expels  something so otrocious that you think to yourself ‘What on Kimye’s Green Earth could be responsible for a chemical reaction like THIS!?” “Who on Earth leaves the house when their body is uncontrollably expelling their Patronus Charm for all of the muggle world to see, hear, and smell!?” I guess that some people have no shame… In particular, let me tell you about the girl on bike 7.

It was early spring of 2017… I had just gotten into indoor cycling at a New York based based cycling company known as Soulcycle. My boyfriend was teaching classes, and to avoid embarrassing him (as the uncoordinated brownie in the front row), I decided that I would ride toward the center of the room in the middle row (This way he could admire my face, and I his, as we sweat away all of our sins from the night before). I surveyed the bikes that were available, and I saw a small intelligent looking girl with glasses on so I decided that I would take the bike behind her (I could see over her head, I imagined that she most likely wore deodorant, and I was at no risk of going unnoticed with her in front of me). What I am about to tell you next haunts me to this day… Every. Single. Time. I get on a bike.

Class began and everything was fine… I was vibing to some Ariana Grande and carefully trying to follow the beat. Then came the choreographed movements… The one that particularly haunts me I now know is referred to as a ‘tap back’. What is required of you to get this movement right is that you position your hands at the front of the handle bars, and as you are pedaling, you gently push your butt backward and up over the seat almost as a small advertisement for the riders behind you. Key word is: gently. Apparently, the delicate creature in front of me didn’t get the memo on the requirement to move slowly and gently because as she thrust her rear back a mere 4 inches in front of my face it happened… What could have been a subtle crop dust had instead taken form in some sort of nuclear warfare launching from her anus directly into my my air intake. I wish I could describe how terrible I was feeling about the entire situation, not just for me, but for her Lululemon’s which were clearly going to be left expanded and discolored after this ride, but I can’t even begin to describe the horror of this situation. After class the lights came on, people left, and the nice intelligent looking girl turned around to give me a high five. I am sure that I looked as though I had just out ran a serial killer because as I put my hand up toward hers I saw the sparkle leave her eyes, and at that moment I realized it… She knew exactly what she had done.

From that point on I ride in the front row, regardless of how I am feeling… It was that single experience that motivated me to work harder, ride better, and refrain from ever going to a cycling class if I had even the smallest indication that Trump had his hand on the trigger. I’ve also done a lot of research into cycling formats since then, so if you would like to know of some great Los Angeles based fitness classes that 1. Provide their riders with more space between rows 2. Avoid tap backs altogether, let me know… I’ve got your back.

Has anything happened to you during a fitness class that’s left you traumatized?

3 thoughts on ““Fitness, flatulence, and the fear of fucking up…””

  1. Oh I can totally picture this. I’ve experienced a similar situation at a yoga class with my mom unfortunately my mom was the girl on bike 7. I almost peed my yoga pants from laughing so hard!

    Liked by 1 person

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