Despite everything else that is happening, the last five years have been pretty rough on my body. Health has been the biggest issue I’ve struggled with and, for a long time, it has affected every aspect of my life.
For a year and a half after my 50th birthday, instead of celebrating my half-decade, I fought to kick cancer's butt and finally began a long and slow recovery after a complicated surgery and a strict vegan-alkaline diet seasoned with lots of CBD, THC, and “WTF?” During that time, flesh fell off my body and I became way too skinny for a good look.
Then, a few months later, another disaster struck. After picking up a chest cold while traveling around the Amazon jungle, I struggled with bronchitis for weeks. My immune system was compromised and I couldn’t shake it off. I’d feel better, then crash again.
A few days after it seemed to have gone, I collapsed with pneumonia. Quickly, I dropped several more pounds; it seemed like cancer had eaten half of my body, then pneumonia dropped in to finish it off. It was kind of: "I've always wanted to be a bit thinner, but not quite like this." Skeletal isn't a good look on me; a pale wan face and protruding bones on normally voluptuous hips. I also lacked physical strength; I missed out on a scuba diving trip in the Galapagos Islands that Christmas break because I wasn't physically strong enough to lift an air tank strapped to my back.
When I finally felt well enough, I began walking down the beach whenever the tide was low. Eventually able to wean myself off the strict alkaline diet, I started gaining weight again. And gaining… And gaining… Then, as the world shut down, unwanted lockdown fat began to accumulate around my legs and belly.
Halfway through 2020, I was smacked down with COVID-19. Unable to celebrate my birthday, I was confined to bed with just liquids to keep me going, mostly hot herbal teas to soothe the sore throat and ease the coughing. You’d think I’d have dropped some weight. Nope. Not an ounce. Seems my body has become rather attached to its fat deposits.
My lungs suffered terribly from the virus and it was many months before I could walk up the stairs without feeling like I’d just run a marathon. Finally, I was almost ready to start tackling long beach walks once again, mid-2021 COVID-19 struck again. Twice. In July and again in September, I was completely incapacitated. My lungs struggled to get air into my bloodstream. Walking up the stairs felt like searing fire racing through my chest. Unable to exercise, I gained more weight.
My diet is pretty good. Mostly vegan, lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh juices, salads, and minimal carbs. I’ll eat a fresh fish every so often if the fishermen give me a really good one. Gluten- and dairy-free, I also avoid sugar and starchy foods wherever possible. I don’t drink much alcohol. Occasionally, I break my own rules and have a dessert or a plate of pasta. Overall, there has been no reason for the weight gain, except for the complete lack of exercise.
I have dedicated 2022 to improving my health; increasing my physical strength, building up my immune system, and getting into better shape. What better way to get started than with yoga, right? Fired up and ready to get fit, I even bought a new pair of yoga pants from one of the passing trucks that sell clothing. I have to admit the old lycras weren't appropriate "out of the house" apparel and my yoga-mates would have been treated to some horrific views they would never be able to unsee. Suitably geared up, I signed up for yoga classes.
It was going great, I was well into a deep downward dog with alternately bending knees, until ... I farted. Time stopped. From around the studio, I heard snorts and giggles. Once it's out there and rippling through the air, there's really nothing you can do about it. You can't undo a fart; especially one of those obnoxious panty-flappers that make you wonder if it left its signature on your knickers.
There's an old joke my Dad used to tell about a butler and his notorious farting boss.
"James!" exclaimed the boss, blaming his farts on the butler. "Stop that!"
"Certainly sir," responded the butler, his expression deadpan. "Which way did it go?"
A few years earlier, I farted during the exertion of trying to get the ball over the net while playing volleyball with the ladies’ team. Both teams collapsed laughing on the ground and didn’t recover for ages despite the impatient urgings of the umpire for everyone to get up and finish the game. Every so often, someone would make a fake fart noise and everyone would collapse again. Farters gonna fart…
The sound of robust flatulence resonated around the yoga studio. I held my downward dog position and unsuccessfully tried to pretend it wasn't me. There was an almost imperceptible pause from the instructor, but she moved on quickly. After class, she smiled brilliantly at me and said, "See you next time!"
Mortified, I almost didn't go back. The humiliation! What if it happened again? Well, I did go back, and it did happen again. Somewhere in between Marjaryasana and Bitilasana breathing, my uncontrollable buttocks blew their own holistic horn. The tactful instructor informed the rest of the giggling class that passing gas is fairly normal during certain poses.
I made a note to self: never eat lentils again! The thing is, that's a big part of it. My diet includes plenty of fart-fodder; beans, lentils, peas, broccoli, onions, fresh fruit, oatmeal, etc. It's a vital part of improving my health, so what's a little bum-burp or two between yoga buddies? Even so, I resolved to be cautious with my lunch menu on yoga days. Several weeks passed without incident—if you don't count the silent farts no one heard!
Whenever I do yoga classes at home, following the YouTube instructor into the dangling pose or switching between cats and cows, I can relax and let out a resonating fart or three without having to worry about my classmate’s comfort or my own public humiliation. Just FYI: There's a yoga pose that's literally called the “wind-relieving pose” or Pavanamuktasana.
Towards the end of a reasonably productive month, I treated myself to a relaxing massage—another important part of my self-care plan. It was my first massage after way too long a time. Bliss! I'd go weekly if I could afford it. Alas, massages are currently limited to super-treat status. Mid-massage, totally relaxed, my recalcitrant buttocks threatened to erupt again. There's a weird "to tense or not to tense" thing that happens to your body while reclined on a massage table, and it could go horribly wrong either way.
If I tense, I ruin the massage. If not, I ruin the masseuse. Either way, something's gonna stink. Hot with shame, I warned her well before the post-digestive explosion of a recently consumed broccoli burger. She switched on a fan, matter-of-factly assured me that farting is common during massages, then continued to pummel my relieved body.
I’ve also taken up throwing myself in the Pacific Ocean whenever the opportunity presents itself. On sunny days, I slip on my cozzie, slap on a hat, and march my oversized body down the beach to the point. Out in the beach break, floating around all alone, I can create my own exclusive mini-spa while discreet aromatic bubbles rise to the surface behind me as the surfers whizz past oblivious to my privately public bodily functions.
Apparently, improving my health and building strength includes letting it all out, farts and all regardless of location. Looks like I'm gonna blow through 2022 like a breeze from hell. Bring it on!