Thphbtttphbttttphbttt

Yep. I'm taking a yoga class at the Y. I'm guessing one of my classmates OD'd on the fiber today considering the sounds that emanated from her general area.

Not that I would ever produce such noises. Heavens no.

Of course, as I concentrate on breathing the right way, clenching my butt muscles just so, tightening my abdominals, stretching and balancing and trying not to fall over like a roly-poly bug, I can't really be responsible for what might escape unbidden from the nether regions.

Several years ago, when Lizz was a little girl, I took a few of the community ed yoga classes. Unlike the Y, we didn't have soothing music playing in the background, so the effervescent rat-a-tat-tats reverberated around the room from at least half a dozen bottoms positioned up against the walls. That's my most enduring memory of those classes.

Aside from the inevitable, perfectly acceptable, equal-opportunity gas bubbles, I really like that our class has people of all abilities and skill levels. I can admire the ladies who execute a perfect Warrior II pose without snorting and grunting like a warthog (like, um, some people) and nobody chuckles when I do my roly-poly bug imitation.

Namaste.