07 April 2009

Dhanurasana and a Badly Packed Kebab

“And now, let’s do Dhanurasana… the bow pose,” Ray, our yogini, intoned after we’ve barely survived a series of unpronounceable asanas which had us twisting our sweat-drenched bodies around like roots of an old mangrove tree. Two or three people, most probably the beginners at the back row, emitted groans of protest across the room which, by now, was at a temperature that can cause desert cacti to die.

Unfazed by the waning signs of life before him, Ray proceeded to demonstrate how easy-peasy Dhanurasana was by effortlessly metamorphosing into a human letter “U” in five seconds flat. “This pose will improve the flexibility of your spine,” our invertebrate instructor said without a flicker of irony.

Following Ralph’s unachievable example, we, dehydrated masochists, laid down flat on our bellies, bended our knees, reached behind to grasp our ankles, and, with varying degrees of failure, simultaneously raised our legs, chest, and head, eyes wide open to see what’s in front of us…



And with that one upward motion, I unintentionally became Ms. V's personal O.B. gynecologist.

Ms. V is a brash, talkative, forty-something woman who, like me, regularly attends Ray's yoga class every Saturday. But unlike me, Ms. V didn’t think it was necessary to wear undies that morning when she positioned herself right smack in front of me. This omission, coupled with her baggy shorts, our arms-length proximity, and my normal vision, gave me a panoramic view of her erogenous zones as we both attempted the bow pose.

And by "erogenous zones", I don't mean her feet. (God, how I wish it was just her feet!) I’m referring to what is known in some straight circles as the Pink Harmonica, Beef Curtains, Kate Bush, Map of Tasmania, Sausage Wallet, and Badly Packed Kebab.

On several occasions, I have prayed to God to bless me with a photographic memory with which to remember evanescent moments such as a sunset in Boracay or a crush’s smile. This was not one of those moments. Nevertheless, I managed to capture the graphic details of that peek-a-boo moment and preserve them in my brain where they would remain for nightmares to come until I finally get the courage to undergo a lobotomy.

As part of my post-traumatic stress therapy to silence the bleating lambs at night, I’m now going to describe what I have seen. There, at Ground Zero, were small, pinkish folds and protrusions of skin, a delicate origami of flesh around what appeared to be a moist wound. Ingrown and outgrown hair peppered the surrounding areas, which also bore Zebra-like stretch marks. And…. was that a black mole just below her floong-flang? I’m not certain. It could either be a mole or a dead fruit fly but for her sake, I hope it’s the former.

If those puckered lips could talk, we'd have this brief, vaginal dialogue:

V: Hey. ‘Sup?
Me: Aaaackkk!!!!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no personal vendetta against vaginas. Their role in the reproductive and evolutionary process is unassailable and without them, we’d just be our daddy’s dried-up sperm cell with nowhere to go but the sewage system. I have nothing but the deepest, sincerest, most profound respect for vaginas all over the world, even though they may be attached to such floozies as Denise Richards and Pamela Anderson. Vagina, we salute and honor you.

What I strongly take issue against is women coming to yoga sessions wearing epidermal lingerie and exposing their sweaty, unshaven genitalia to unsuspecting classmates who are simply trying their best to achieve that damn Dhanurasana pose in sauna-like conditions. I say, enough of such lewd conduct! Enough! The Vulva Vulgaris doesn't have to be vulgar! It’s high time that we put an end to this labial exhibitionism and bring basic human decency and underwear back to yoga studios! This is our moment, people! This is Spartaaaaaaaaa!

Now, if Ms. V was a young male model, preferably of Japanese-Brazilian origins, then I might just reconsider my position take everything I’ve said back!

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