I don’t know about you but whenever I do any kind of stretching or slow hip-adjusting manoeuvres, whether gym/class related or not, the inner being of my seriously lacking post-kids pelvic floor is not to be relied on in any way, shape or form.
I consider myself quite fit (and not in the ‘If she was a president she would be Baberaham Lincoln’ kind of way, I mean I try to look after myself, as I will soon reach the mile stone that is ..eek…40). I call it a mile stone because a lot of my friends who have achieved that goal already have confirmed that Heading South is the new Pert! I weep at the memory of matching underwear from days of old and wonder whether the Red Arrows are missing a parachute which has very kindly disguised itself as one of my apres-babmino bras. Along with the grey-ing pants and elastic free joggy bottoms – I am on fire in the looking good department! Sigh.
Now, yoga or body balance which I do (a bit of tai chi, yoga and pilates all rolled into one fantastic bundle of core enhancing endorphin’s) is where I tend to try my best but more often that not, I fail. Or pump. Whichever is the most humiliating experience to go through.
To describe a yoga pump (fart, flatulence, wind – whatever you call it in the safety of your own home) is when a little bit of air escapes from your body, usually making a loud noise as it makes it’s bid for freedom out your back side. Now this is a normal occurrence for some, but not when you’ve hit the down dog position for the eight time in a very busy class. In a room that has no windows and the mats already smell of sweaty feet without your fragrant aroma adding to the mix. It lingers, enticing your nostrils to send messages to the brain which immediately tell you to sit up and glare at the person next to you. That was not me, you silently cry out in indignation.
The reality is – would people believe you if you stopped the class mid sun salutation and asked , ‘Right then, hands up who pumped?’.
Nope, I wouldn’t either. I would probably be banished and my lovely new yoga mat would prop itself under the window ledge until my beaming red face subsides and a new class is found.