You know, sometimes you just… exist. You wake up, it’s 6:17 AM, exactly, and the light filtering through the blinds on the east-facing window is that particular shade of pale gray that promises a kind of unremarkable day. You’ve planned it out, meticulously, as you always do. Tuesdays are for yoga, followed by the grocery store, then perhaps a bit of light gardening if the azaleas seem to need it. It’s all very… contained. Predictable. The kind of life you build for yourself after, well, after everything else has run its course. The yoga studio is usually quite serene. Low lighting, the scent of something earthy and not quite definable – sandalwood, maybe, or patchouli, though you’d never actually purchase such a thing for your own home. It's the silent meditation class, the one that promises a 'deep dive into the present moment.' You settle onto your mat, the specific mat you bought after that incident with the spilled coffee at the community center, the one that’s a muted plum color. You close your eyes, attempt to regulate the respiration, as instructed. And then, there you are, in a forward fold, head pressed against your thighs, attempting to achieve what the instructor calls an 'optimal release' in the lower back. You’re maybe thirty seconds into this particular pose, trying to focus on the soft hum of the air conditioning unit, the almost imperceptible vibrations from the traffic outside on Elm Street. And then it happens. A distinct, unmistakable sound. Not loud, exactly, but clear. A sort of… puff. A brief, almost musical, expiration of gas. In a SILENT meditation class, mind you. You feel your entire skeletal structure sort of… freeze. A sort of internal recoil. You don't move, of course. You maintain the pose, perfectly still, as if nothing at all has occurred. Your face, you imagine, remains impassive. You can feel the heat, though, a very specific heat, creeping up from your chest to your ears. A flush, perhaps, though you keep your eyes firmly closed, so you wouldn’t know for certain. The instructor, bless her heart, continues to intone about 'finding stillness within.' You can practically hear the silence in the room amplify, sort of, after your particular contribution. For the rest of the class, you just… exist in a different way. Every breath feels like a calculated risk. Every shift in position, a potential catastrophe. You observe the sensation, the peculiar feeling of being simultaneously mortified and utterly detached. It’s not just the embarrassment, you see. It’s the sheer… impropriety of it all. This carefully constructed façade of composure, of the genteel suburban retiree who always has her affairs in order, pierced by a simple biological function. You finish the class, gather your things with a deliberate slowness, perhaps even a touch of nonchalance, and depart. You avoid eye contact. You're not sure if anyone else even registered it, truly, but you *felt* it. You get home, unload the groceries – organic kale, artisanal sourdough, all the usual culprits – and you find yourself just staring at the plum-colored yoga mat, now rolled up neatly in the corner. You just look at it, and there’s this sort of… hollow feeling. Like a very specific part of your self-perception has been slightly deflated. You’re not quite sure what to do with that information. Maybe you’ll switch to the Aqua Aerobics class on Wednesdays. It's less… acoustically sensitive, I guess. Or maybe you'll just keep going to yoga. The thought of confronting it, of letting it somehow *matter*, feels exhausting.