Bikram Follies.

So, I let a friend sweet talk me into Bikram yoga. Me. The girl who sweats in air conditioning. Agreed to a hot yoga class. And not your typical hour of hot yoga. A FULL FREAKING 90 MINUTES OF IT. I know what you're thinking: why? And trust me--I asked myself the same thing several times. A week in, sliding in a puddle of my own sweat, I still ask myself that question. But without dredging up the gory details, my calf punked out again and medical advice was to put it on ice. So...my more intense workouts were out, but...yoga is basically stretching and relaxation. I can't sit still, lest I lose my routine and misplace my motivation, so hot yoga it is! Besides, my friend would be there. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision on a Monday afternoon. If I thought about it too much, I'd talk myself out of it.

The class was at 6:30, so I had an awkward amount of time between getting home from work and actually heading to the yoga studio. My mat sadly disappeared during the move, but my Bikram buddy offered to give me her extra mat. I arrived at the studio first and filled out my paperwork, paid my $30 for 30 days, and kind of milled about the small lobby. Which is to say I stood near the door and stared out the window waiting for my friend. The instructor kept glancing at me and finally said, "You can go into the room. I can walk in with you if you'd like." I'm pretty sure she thought I lied when I told her I had done yoga before. Plus, I am not a pretty-worker-outer, so I doubt that I give off the appearance of being able to endure much of anything when it comes to physical exertion. 

So...blah, blah, blah. What was it like?

Why is it so hot?

I was immediately sweating from every pore in my body. It's like my skin was sobbing. I'm pretty sure my teeth were also sweating, and I don't even think that's physically possible. My barely there tank top was immediately soaked and slathered to my body, brazenly showcasing my imperfections and broadcasting my insecurities in one fell swoop. Beads of sweat were dropping ski-jump style off my nose, collecting into a quickly growing lake near my feet. By the way, did you know sweat could sting? My eyebrows were failing at their God-given role of protecting my eyes from perspiration leaking off my forehead--perspiration that I am convinced was laced with napalm. I could hardly see the instructor through the haze of sweat and tears. In that moment, the heat of the room was hardly noticeable. 

Profuse sweating.

The beads of toxic sweat were a greater threat than the 112-degree heat. I watched people twist and turn and drip, all following the steady cadence of the instructor's voice: "And reach...reach...pull your left hip forward and stretch your right shoulder...reach...like a flower petal blooming...and breathe...and reach, stretching just past your comfort zone. Remember: This is your practice. The movement is the same, but your body will change..." When I finally had a free moment, I swiped a towel across my face and my eyes finally stopped burning. The rest of the class is pretty much a blur, until a gentleman in front of me loosed a riveting rippler of a fart. I remember wondering how I would continue to breathe in the heat and negotiate the reek of flatulence. We also had an ambulance show up to accommodate someone who had a little trouble in class. Plenty of excitement for my first Bikram.

So, the review? It's hot. To quote the little boy I used to nanny, I barely roll out my mat before I become a "sweatbox." It could probably be argued that I'm a sweatbox all the time--but understandably, this hot yoga situation exacerbates the sweatbox situation. Every class, laying on my back in savasana, I stare at the stationary fans on the ceiling and wonder how many more postures it is until the fans turn on again. Each final savasana, the lights go out and the fans come on, and I am so happy to be done. Every time I leave class, I am convinced I've sweated out at least 10 pounds. 

Like, temperature hot.

So far, that theory has not proven true. But it feels good to get my yoga going again and I paid it forward by sweet talking another poor sucker into it. 

We sweat alone together.