Hot Ass Yoga

This morning I was running a bit late. Two factors contributed to my tardiness – first, my tea was exceptionally hot and I couldn’t slug it back per the usual, and second, I was reading the new issue of O magazine and one article in particular struck my fancy. It was about a gal who, in an effort to change her life, took up Bikram yoga. I didn’t get a chance to finish the whole thing (I will be doing so this evening) but it struck me as humorous because I related to her story, for I, in a moment of stupidity, decided to take a Bikram class.

It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.

One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.

As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.

At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.

As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.

It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.