Dear Wigleaf,

I think my yoga teacher hates me. Why wouldn't she? I'm apparently the kind of person who says, "My yoga teacher," as if she is mine and mine alone, as if she doesn't teach me and 55 other humans. A few weeks ago I practiced (yeah, I'm also the kind person who says "practiced," like my mat is a violin and I'm off to Julliard) next to a woman who couldn't stop farting. Imagine this: down dog, up dog, fart! Low push up, high push up, fart! Of course she was pretending not to fart, scrunching her nose, making a show of her deep offense at body odor. But honestly Becky, we knew it was you! We heard you gloating about your new cleanse. We get that you eat jicama.

I don't know, Wigleaf. Maybe my yoga teacher hates me because I'm mean to Becky, mean to everyone. Not to you, of course. For you, I'll be honest.

I used to be afraid to write about my life. In workshop, writers would ask for more emotion, less humor. They never understood my humor to be rage. They never saw rage as a valid emotion. At yoga they say "the only way out is through," and I think that's true. It's true for my writing, which at the ripe age of 36, is more about myself than ever before. And it's true for Becky and her farts.

Please forgive me for writing about farts.

Namaste,

KAR




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Read KAR's story.

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