It’s 2025 and I spent the last month of 2024 stuck in a depression hole. New year, new medication, new me.
I’m not much into the pressure of setting resolutions for the new year — resolutions that I inevitably fail or give up on, and then feel bad about myself for the rest of the year. But January of a new year felt like as good of a time as any to start digging myself out of the hole.
First order of business: moving my body. I started with a $30 for 30 days deal at a bougie yoga studio (bougie as in, you are served tea when you walk in and there’s never more than 6 people in a class) and vowed to use the small gym in my apartment more frequently. My friend and I had also talked about trying a burlesque or pole dancing class.
What a great time to do such a thing, I thought to myself. Get in touch with my femininity, or something like that. So, we signed up for a beginner heels dance class. I was excited, imagining myself feeling sexy and empowered.
My friend and I showed up to the most packed exercise class I’ve ever been in. Everyone wore baggy sweatpants and I turned to my friend and said, “We didn’t get the sweatpants memo.”
Later, when everyone took off their sweatpants to reveal an impressive variety of booty shorts and proper sexy dancing heels, I realize that I didn’t get that memo either. I was basically covered from head to toe in leggings and a long sleeve, with some very modestly heeled booties.
The warm-up was for us to carry out my literal worst nightmare; we stood in a circle and everyone took turns dancing in the center of the circle. It became abundantly clear that though this was a beginner class, no one — except me — was a beginner to twerking. The level of ass shaking was incredible, really. In splits, on all fours, with one leg up, all sorts of variations. When it was my turn to go into the center and dance, all I could think to do was the disco like the awkward and repressed middle-schooler I am inside. Very sexy indeed.
I enjoyed learning the steps to the dance, although it was really hard for my little pea-sized brain to keep up, especially when my hips and ass couldn’t do many of the things they were asked to do. At the end of the class, we were split into small groups to perform the dance for the rest of the larger group. Again, another nightmare scenario. I did it, but definitely blacked out. I definitely forgot many of the steps and cringed at the thought of someone watching my shake-less ass. In short, never have I ever been more embarrassed of my lack of ass shaking education and have vowed to find a beginner twerking class so I can return to the heels class and redeem myself.
The dance class was only a minor setback in my journey for self discovery through the power of regular exercise. I was in the mood for something more low-key and relaxing after this experience, so I signed up for a “functional yoga” class at the bougie yoga studio a few days later. The class description advertised myofascial release, a focus on stability, and flowing movements, which sounded relaxing and more my speed.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now, I am fairly experienced in yoga classes and can hang (more or less) with the more intense varieties. This was something new altogether. The teacher had us rapidly contorting our bodies in mobility-based shapes. I found myself in a position where yet again, my body did not and could not move in the way it was being asked to.
The movements got more fast paced and my body was moving and twisting in ways I hope to never have to move again. With all the twisting of my abdomen, I began to feel all the air trapped in my post-holidays bloated stomach move around and I couldn’t help it. A few silent farts escaped of their own accord.
The teacher was playing music but it was relatively quiet and there were only four other people in the class. We were doing some sort of complicated transition between a bridge pose and a plank where we pivoted on one of our hands. My body was absolutely clenched with the struggle of keeping myself from collapsing and as I pivoted, before I could even do anything to stop it, I farted again. This time very loudly. Of the car-honking kind.
I looked around covertly, and no one seemed to noticed. But I know they did. How could they not? There were five of us, close together, and I just released the loud and unmistakable honk of an unrestrained fart.
I panicked. Do I say something to ease the tension? Do I make a joke about how these movements are so hard that I’ve lost control of my bodily functions?
In the end, I decided not to say or do anything about it, but that was most certainly my last class at that yoga studio. I felt I didn’t deserve to show my face there after I defiled that sacred space for all the rich white women who could afford memberships there.
Here’s to next month, where I can hopeful gain more control over the movements of my ass and can shake it in ways I want to, and avoid it having a mind of its own.
A Series of Awkward Events 