About a week ago, I was on a walk with friends when I noticed a new Hot Yoga studio had opened just 3/4 a mile from my house. I thought it sounded interesting and miserable and was immediately seized with the inexplicable urge to try it out at least once.
This is usually the beginning of the end for me; the slow percolation of "let's try it just to try" combined with a morbid fascination with things that sound miserable, awful, or like some sort of endurance contest. This is the impulse that has sent me on ill-fated half marathon runs,a marathon solo wine drinking session, swimming too far out into the open sea.
Ten days later, cue an open evening that would otherwise be spent home alone. On the drive home the self-flagellating percolator kicks into full drive. "Hey, I could try one of those hot yoga classes tonight!" If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so is the road to a hot yoga class. And the temperature may be comparable.
It's 5:30 and I'm a 25 minute commute from home. Class session is at 6:30.
Nevermind that I've had maybe one glass of water to drink all day.
Nevermind I have no idea what this sort of thing entails.
Nevermind I only have running clothes and nevermind I won't have any dinner.
Hell, nevermind that I DON'T EVEN DO NORMAL YOGA, NOR HAVE I EVER ATTEMPTED IT. (Unless WiiFit counts, but even then that stupid yoga coach was always saying "looks like your balance needs some work." Eff you, ugly looking surfboard! It's 2009 and you don't even levitate!)
I digress.
I shot off a quick text to my friend Rachael, who I know has done hot yoga at least once before. "Going to do a hot yoga session. Thoughts/tips/concerns?"
Rachael is an on-the-ball type of person. I love that about her. In a few seconds, some straightforward and helpful advice zhupes into my iPhone. "Don't leave the room. Stay in there, even if it just means lying down. Bring two towels. Bring lots of water- like more than a litre. And wear as little clothing as possible. :)"
I laughed at the last part while I stepped into running shorts and a heat gear t-shirt. I'm not a prude, but this gut is staying covered. While the room may be feeling enlightened and one with their corporeal selves, there's no way I would with my translucent stomach creating a glare in the mirror.
Two towels, an enormous water bottle and payment options in tow, I bolt to the yoga studio early so I can check in and rent a mat.
And here's where it all begins to get weird.
I'm greeted by an entirely shirtless, incredibly toned man wearing swim trunks and no shoes, with a towel over his shoulder. I knew this would be different, but whoa. That's quite the change-up from my normal weekday view of three perimenopausal office ladies with statement necklaces and slacks.
Thankfully, the woman right behind me is a beginner, too, and lives just down street from me. "Hooray, yoga buddies!" she exclaims.
I waffle between wild eyed enthusiasm and reserved skepticism. 16 wackos in a human sized oven, wearing as little as they're comfortable with and sweating so much that we'll soak through a towel-covered mat.
AWESOME.
And into the 104 degree chamber we go. The room was dark. The other newbie and I planted ourselves in the back, near the door. "So I don't disturb others if I have to leave." my polite side thought. "All the better if puking is involved." my real side thought.
Mat down, towel down, we all lie down on our backs and just breathe in the oppressive heat.
Initially, I thought it felt nice. Then we passed the 30 second mark and it began to sink in that I am totally. screwed.
Being a native St. Louisan, I tried to think that maybe I was a little bit conditioned for this sort of thing. After all, last summer we'd had 60(?) days of over 100 degree heat. Of course I can do this!
I was only partially right.
Class began and I was doing okay. Even kind of impressed at how well I was handling the heat and thinking maybe I had a natural proclivity for this yoga stuff. "Yup. Totally just nailed that posture!" I thought.
But then we moved out of the warm-up breathing exercises into the standing asanas.
Oh no. That earlier bit was warm-up? Balls.
The rest of the session was a blur of occasional lightheadedness, wobbling, shaking, and the occasional just-sit-down-and-breathe break. As I struggled through the postures, I suddenly remembered:
I am REALLY bad at following instructions while struggling through a physical task. And I had just signed up for 90 minutes of following confusing instructions in the devil's easy bake oven.
In junior high and high school I took up cross-country running and actually wasn't half bad. During races, though, my parents made jokes that I turned into some sort of snarling monster when anyone tried to give helpful suggestions. "Loosen your hands" my dad would say. "Watch your breathing" my coach would say. Both were met with almighty death glares or, if I sensed any sort of smugness in their tone, I'd huff out a pointed teenaged "SHUT UP" as I ran past.
So, when the instructor would spit out rapid-fire instructions like "chinupchestopenpushhandstogetherliftNOW" and "Loosen your hands, watch your breating," I felt my death-star glare charging. But this is yoga, we're supposed to soften our faces, pick a spot on the wall, and breathe into the posture.
At which point I introduced a personalized practice of face softening: rolling my eyes. It actually helped.
All in all, hot yoga was a mild success. Sure, I came home smelling worse than any time I could remember. But in the heat and sweat and stretch, there was no room to think about anything else. I am the worst at being present to my surroundings and experiencing moments for what they are and nothing more.
But at 104 degrees? Trust me, your brain is too hot to mess with all those trivial thoughts and instead just switches to primary functions, like breathing, being, and making sly death threats to all the yogis who look a little too serene.
This is usually the beginning of the end for me; the slow percolation of "let's try it just to try" combined with a morbid fascination with things that sound miserable, awful, or like some sort of endurance contest. This is the impulse that has sent me on ill-fated half marathon runs,a marathon solo wine drinking session, swimming too far out into the open sea.
Ten days later, cue an open evening that would otherwise be spent home alone. On the drive home the self-flagellating percolator kicks into full drive. "Hey, I could try one of those hot yoga classes tonight!" If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so is the road to a hot yoga class. And the temperature may be comparable.
It's 5:30 and I'm a 25 minute commute from home. Class session is at 6:30.
Nevermind that I've had maybe one glass of water to drink all day.
Nevermind I have no idea what this sort of thing entails.
Nevermind I only have running clothes and nevermind I won't have any dinner.
Hell, nevermind that I DON'T EVEN DO NORMAL YOGA, NOR HAVE I EVER ATTEMPTED IT. (Unless WiiFit counts, but even then that stupid yoga coach was always saying "looks like your balance needs some work." Eff you, ugly looking surfboard! It's 2009 and you don't even levitate!)
I digress.
I shot off a quick text to my friend Rachael, who I know has done hot yoga at least once before. "Going to do a hot yoga session. Thoughts/tips/concerns?"
Rachael is an on-the-ball type of person. I love that about her. In a few seconds, some straightforward and helpful advice zhupes into my iPhone. "Don't leave the room. Stay in there, even if it just means lying down. Bring two towels. Bring lots of water- like more than a litre. And wear as little clothing as possible. :)"
I laughed at the last part while I stepped into running shorts and a heat gear t-shirt. I'm not a prude, but this gut is staying covered. While the room may be feeling enlightened and one with their corporeal selves, there's no way I would with my translucent stomach creating a glare in the mirror.
Two towels, an enormous water bottle and payment options in tow, I bolt to the yoga studio early so I can check in and rent a mat.
And here's where it all begins to get weird.
I'm greeted by an entirely shirtless, incredibly toned man wearing swim trunks and no shoes, with a towel over his shoulder. I knew this would be different, but whoa. That's quite the change-up from my normal weekday view of three perimenopausal office ladies with statement necklaces and slacks.
Thankfully, the woman right behind me is a beginner, too, and lives just down street from me. "Hooray, yoga buddies!" she exclaims.
I waffle between wild eyed enthusiasm and reserved skepticism. 16 wackos in a human sized oven, wearing as little as they're comfortable with and sweating so much that we'll soak through a towel-covered mat.
AWESOME.
And into the 104 degree chamber we go. The room was dark. The other newbie and I planted ourselves in the back, near the door. "So I don't disturb others if I have to leave." my polite side thought. "All the better if puking is involved." my real side thought.
Mat down, towel down, we all lie down on our backs and just breathe in the oppressive heat.
Initially, I thought it felt nice. Then we passed the 30 second mark and it began to sink in that I am totally. screwed.
Being a native St. Louisan, I tried to think that maybe I was a little bit conditioned for this sort of thing. After all, last summer we'd had 60(?) days of over 100 degree heat. Of course I can do this!
I was only partially right.
Class began and I was doing okay. Even kind of impressed at how well I was handling the heat and thinking maybe I had a natural proclivity for this yoga stuff. "Yup. Totally just nailed that posture!" I thought.
But then we moved out of the warm-up breathing exercises into the standing asanas.
Oh no. That earlier bit was warm-up? Balls.
The rest of the session was a blur of occasional lightheadedness, wobbling, shaking, and the occasional just-sit-down-and-breathe break. As I struggled through the postures, I suddenly remembered:
I am REALLY bad at following instructions while struggling through a physical task. And I had just signed up for 90 minutes of following confusing instructions in the devil's easy bake oven.
In junior high and high school I took up cross-country running and actually wasn't half bad. During races, though, my parents made jokes that I turned into some sort of snarling monster when anyone tried to give helpful suggestions. "Loosen your hands" my dad would say. "Watch your breathing" my coach would say. Both were met with almighty death glares or, if I sensed any sort of smugness in their tone, I'd huff out a pointed teenaged "SHUT UP" as I ran past.
So, when the instructor would spit out rapid-fire instructions like "chinupchestopenpushhandstogetherliftNOW" and "Loosen your hands, watch your breating," I felt my death-star glare charging. But this is yoga, we're supposed to soften our faces, pick a spot on the wall, and breathe into the posture.
At which point I introduced a personalized practice of face softening: rolling my eyes. It actually helped.
All in all, hot yoga was a mild success. Sure, I came home smelling worse than any time I could remember. But in the heat and sweat and stretch, there was no room to think about anything else. I am the worst at being present to my surroundings and experiencing moments for what they are and nothing more.
But at 104 degrees? Trust me, your brain is too hot to mess with all those trivial thoughts and instead just switches to primary functions, like breathing, being, and making sly death threats to all the yogis who look a little too serene.
RSS Feed