Jamie Reidy knows that women aren’t immune to laying a stinker—even in downward facing dog.
It’s the end of yoga class. Exhausted, I lie on my back during Savasna, thankful that in the previous hour I didn’t pop a hamstring or a boner, either of which would have been mortifying in front of all these women.
Focused on my deep, nasal breathing, I am helpless when the stink reaches me. Apparently, one of my classmates overachieved in reaching her state of relaxation.
The fart quickly envelops me. I nearly dry heave; not because of the odor’s offensiveness—it wouldn’t even register on the top (bottom?) 100 I’ve suffered through—but because of its surprise.
Women pass gas. I know this thanks to basic science courses. Plus, I saw Bridesmaids. But, still, female flatulence always catches me off guard.
And judging from the nasty looks I receive a few minutes later, the women didn’t expect it, either.
People normally aren’t frowning after yoga, the point of which is too relieve stress, lighten the spirit, and tighten the buttocks. But all of the women who practiced near me in the back row are frowning at me, or, in the case of Miss Yoga-Classmate-Apparently-Sponsored-by-Lululemon, glaring at me.
It takes a second to realize what’s going on. Finally, I get it. These ladies assume that I—the only guy in today’s class—dropped the stink bomb.
Why is it that a man is always blamed for a fart? Think about it. Any time a WMD-worthy fecal cloud rises in a bar, the girls immediately cover their mouths with one hand and accusingly point to a nearby dude with the other.
That’s a blatant case of gender profiling.
Are you telling me Cameron Diaz has never crop-dusted her fellow passengers en route to the airplane bathroom? Brooke Burke hasn’t let a butt burp slip during a massage?
Funny thing about the girls’ fingering me as the farter: I always hit the gym bathroom prior to yoga for a pre-emptive strike, if you will, just to avoid poisoning my peers. I’m on their side!
Ladies, I am guilty of many things: sneaking glances at your asses in those tights, as well as wondering what your asses look like without those tights, to name just a couple.
But I am innocent when it comes to floating an air biscuit (R.I.P. John Hughes) in yoga class.
—Photo lululemon athletica/Flickr