I've been recently reading about a blogger friend's travels in the land of the leprechaun and apart from the description of the beauty of the hills and little towns and general countryside, she's been talking about the food! Apparently, in Ireland, a guest is not being properly treated unless he/she is being constantly plied with food and drink in large (and alarming) quantities. In that respect I guess Irish people are very similar to my Nana! Beans has told me much about the legendary Irish breakfasts (2 fried eggs, 2 rashes of bacon, 2 sausages, 2 fried tomatoes, white pudding, black pudding and coffee. Followed by a light serving of cardiac arrest) that he regularly consumes. But the part that most worried me is that I was going to be living with him for a month or so, and what wretched effect was all that food going to have on me???? Of course, as luck would have it I'm dating Mr. High Metabolism himself and in spite of stuffing his face silly with all sorts of fried foods washed down with copious amounts of Guinness, the boy is irritatingly thin as a... well.... beanpole!
Just as I was pondering my inevitable oversized fate, I get a call from the yoga studio down the road to remind me that I had a prepaid card of 18 classes that I had bought last year and it was about to expire in August. Eureka! I'd go back to the studio and use up the card before I leave so that even if I bloat horribly after, at least I'd get to Scotland looking reasonably good!
And so, I set off to my first class yesterday after work.
Pilates Mat? Check!
Water bottle? Check!
Workout clothes? Check!
Can-do attitude? Double check!
Five minutes into the class I realised why I'd stopped going to Pilates in the first place.
For starters, I couldn't figure out if I was supposed to be breathing in or out at specific points and most of the time I was just trying to catch my breath if anything. Also, I didn't really remember what any of the exercises or poses were called, so while everyone else was tranquilly doing deep breathing exercises while holding Angel Arms over a C Curve, I on the other hand was constantly secretly peeking through half closed lids to figure out what all that mumbo-jumbo meant! And in any case, I couldn't manage most of the exercises anyway coz my amply distributed fat kept getting in the way of me and the desired effect.
But the worse hit about half way through the class when I knew....just KNEW that I was going to fart! And there was not a damn thing I could do to stop it!
I tried to hold it in for as long as possible, but seriously have YOU tried to hold on to a *parp* while simultaneously doing what in effect is pumping you stomach up and down to create the air in the first place?? It's simply not possible.
Desperately I looked around. Serene pilates poses everywhere. I could feel it slipping out, and with every iota of my being I prayed that it was a silent killer and not a trumpet solo. At least with the former there was a chance of plausible deniability! And yes, I was trying to keep my features as neutral as possible. Even harder!
Thankfully, it was a silent one. Not sure if it were killer or not (since it went away from me) but as the minutes passed and no one reacted, I started to breathe again.
Not sure if that's what they meant by letting out your inner peace, but hell I'd take it!