If you’ve done yoga and you have a vagina you might relate to the experience I had in my class today. Yoga isn’t really my thing; I go on occasion, I mostly like it but I’m constantly reminded of the scar tissue in my left ass cheek, my sore wrist, and my rickety right knee. That and I have a host of emotional issues that threaten to overwhelm me as soon as the yoga instructor starts getting all spiritual and shit. I prefer options that allow me to politely ignore the glorious mind-body connection, but nonetheless, I found myself on my purple yoga mat at 10 am sharp.
It was a normal, run of the mill yoga class until we did this one move that is specifically designed to put the fear of god into anyone who has a vagina. You might know the one; start in downward dog and then slowly raise your left leg up above your body, bend the knee, and gently allow the leg to fall towards the ground on the right side of your body, opening you up into a lovely twisty position.
As I hold this position, my body takes the opportunity to suck copious amounts of air in via my vagina. I can actually hear the swoosh and feel the breeze created by the vacuum action of my lady bits. It reminds me of that scene from the Princess Bride when Wesley and Buttercup are in the fireswamp and they fall into the lightening sand. As they finally resurface, they both take in huge, gasping breaths, starved for air. It’s very disturbing when your vagina seems to be gasping for air.
Once a vagina takes on air, it’s a given that the owner is in an awkward situation. She knows the air must come back out and that it will likely make some sort of terrible and wet farting noise. This has happened to me enough times to have tried several different techniques for letting the air out silently; none of them is a guarantee.
The moment it happened instinct took over and I immediately tried to push the air back out while the passage way was wide open, hoping it would whoosh out as quietly as it had entered. My leg was coming down as I tried to release the air, and as I swooped my leg towards the mat a series of very small, but very audible put-put-put queefs exited my nethers which made me clench my shit back up. I looked at my neighbor to see if she’d heard but I couldn’t be sure of anything in my state of high anxiety.
My next strategy was to make a loud grunting noise whilst trying to expel the remaining air thereby disguising the queef. It was a big one; reminiscent of my 5 year old 2 hours after a bowl of chili, but I had decent luck with this trick and felt confident that zero vag-air remained. I could do this!
The class was next instructed to jump from downward dog into a forward bend… Easy-peasy. I pushed off with enough force to launch me and my queef to the front of my mat. What the fuck! I’m sure that all people within a 10 foot radius heard that one- it was not dainty at all, but that had to be the last of it. Relaxing into my practice was next to impossible for fear of another crotch explosion, but I put on my big girl panties and pushed through the remaining 15 minutes.
In those last 15 minutes, little tiny puffs and put-puts popped out of me like a five minute, intermittent backfire from Fred Fintstone’s car. I got to the point where I just didn’t give a fuck anymore and carried on with zero regard to my never-ending queef and the effects it might be having on my neighbor’s ability to be spiritual.
In some ways, my queef was the catalyst that launched me into a state of zen in today’s yoga class. The masters say that it’s all about going inward, letting the outside world slip away as you seek a state of higher being. At some point, I lost my fear, I lost my shame and I accepted my queef for what it was; air in my vagina. I feel like I’ve transcended all vaginal issues on this day and for that, I’m grateful for the queef that had no end.