Second day of my retreat and my head has nearly stopped hurting.
Well, it would be ‘yay’ except now, pretty much everything else is hurting like a motha…..
I kid you not, this woman is one cracking yoga teacher and I’ve got places hurting that I didn’t even know existed.
But that’s nothing compared with my other little, ahem, problem.
The worst thing about this retreat by far, is all the poo.
The food here is (a) delicious, (b) plentiful and (c) unbelievably, mainly vegan, so for the most part is comprised of 80-90% plant derived foods, fruit, vegetables, soya, almond, tofu <retch!> etc..
The other 10% must be the 90% quality cocaine or something (and here was me thinking that white stuff was vegan parmesan….) because once you start eating this stuff, it’s nigh on impossible to stop.
My stomach however is less than impressed with my radical change of diet. In fact, if it could speak it would say, sorry, scream ‘What the fucking FUCK is the fucking deal, you demented, broccoli-bothering bitch?!!’
Not that I’d blame it as I’ve gone from a relatively low carb diet, to becoming a regular poo processing plant overnight.
I mean it’s ludicrous. I could very easily supply enough dung to meet the needs of a small farm.
I get up, shit, do yoga, have breakfast, shit, have lunch, shit, shit again, more yoga, then have at least another huge dump before taking my nightly ‘constitutional’, not I might add, to stretch my limbs as I tell the others, but to release all those carefully suppressed farts before sloping off to bed for a restless, mad dream filled sleep, still crammed to the gullet with vegetation.
AND I have to share a bathroom!!!
Luckily my neighbour and I are in the same boat, so readily forgive that gaseous, cabbagy fug from the others’ effluent, that grabs us by the throat and shakes us like a dog shakes a rat whenever we open the bog door.
And occasionally we hear the other slowly, quietly unlock the door and slink guiltily back to her room, pink in the face from both effort and shame and fully empathise with that feeling, albeit whilst simultaneously wishing we’d brought along some Vics Vaporub to bung under our nostrils at times like these.
That can’t be right, can it?
And they call this healthy?! I look like I have worms, as the skin of my belly is like an overstuffed (vegan) sausage, and I have to spend most of my days prone like a snake that’s just imbibed a fucking buffalo or something in order to digest the last onslaught of fibre.
At this rate, I’m going to go home heavier than I would have had I gone to the U.S. for an interactive ‘Man vs Food’ tour, but I guess I have to look on the bright side; no meat sweats or constipation here, no sirree, ‘cos it just keeps on movin’, like toothpaste out of a tube….
And they tell me here that bread is bad for you because it can bloat you out….
HAH is what I say to that!
Or I would do if I have any energy left, but all my blood has diverted to my digestive tract.
Sorry about this, I’d like to tell you more about the arse-anas, sorry, asanas, meditations, and poses etc, but right now I AM my belly! In fact it is the centre of the universe and all things orbit around it, or at least that’s how it feels.
Maybe my belly is God? If it is, it’s the Old Testament version as it sure likes to punish me….
Hope to have something more intellectual/intelligent/highbrow/less toilet tomorrow, till then, namaste x