ZOMG last night was the worst night ever. I tried Bikram Yoga, or Hot Yoga, for the very first time in my life, and I am now thoroughly convinced that the practice was invented by the Devil.
Entering the work space is an experience. Imagine every well-groomed, dissatisfied trust-fundian DeadHead you've ever met in one room encased in designer sportswear and you pretty much have the experience. This is not to say that your classmates aren't kind. On the contrary- Bikram followers are full of love. It was a very huggy crowd. Everyone was very present, man. Present and nearly nude!! Short shorts and sports bras were quite the fashion... for everyone except me. Tank top and yoga pants, my friends! This girl doesn't shed for strangers unless plied with liquor. George, my fellow first-timer, said he felt like we had unwittingly signed up for some sort of sex party.
Entering the workout room is like walking into someone's mouth- except that mouth is full of other sweaty people. The picture above is accurate- there were like 40 people in this room. One hundred ten degrees, 50% humidity... what was I thinking?? I hate the heat, I hate exercising, and this is far too much bodily fluid to be splashed with from people I'm not sleeping with, that's for sure. I have never sweated so much in my life... and that was before I laid my mat down.
I was holding my own for a good 30 minutes of the 90 minute session... then the room started to swimming. Rather than pass out in front of all these yogis, I left to sit outside- big mistake. The rapid change in temperature from 110 degrees to 70 was a little too much... get ready for it- I TOTALLY PUKED, YOU GUYS!!!
Super love it. So after puking all over the floor of the bathroom at the yoga place, I did what any veteran puker does, I high-tailed it out of there. Shortly before I did, I had a conversation with one of the receptionist/yogis, Willow? Wheatgrass? Something herbal, anyway. She was very sweet. She explained that the heat is what most first-timers have the toughest times with, and that this was my body's way of telling me it needs this, and encouraged me to re-enter the room when I was ready, I would feel such calm if I did! Some salesgirl.
Luckily for me, Haybale left, so my pukey pants and I were able to flee with some semblance of dignity. Stumbling dizzily to my car, I did feel a sense of something- peace, quasi-dehydrated drunkenness, who knows... but I did feel good. Until I found a ticket on my car. GRRRR! So now thirty minutes of literal hell on earth has cost me $80.
I also have a bruise on my ass from falling down the sheet of ice that were the sidewalks last night while walking Daisy... I had to roll over to the grass because I kept slipping when I tried to get up. Ah, my glamorous life.
So I've been considering it- feeling stupid for ever thinking my Scottish constitution could handle the heat, I am facing eating the $30 for the month trial and realizing the end of my dreams of being a shapely yogini (and possibly facing the end of my hopes to travel to India- do they have air conditioning there?), or I try getting back on the horse once more. Grassy Knoll told me that the first time is the hardest, and that now I've been through it, I wouldn't notice it the next time. Do I believe her? Do I risk puking again? It's a general rule I have to avoid things that make me throw up at all costs. Well- that's a lie. I do still drink, after all. Here's the crazy part- the competitive, masochistic cheap-ass in me is almost considering going back to the class...I paid $30 and I couldn't finish one class? BALLS!
I now have a crime procedural for every day of the week. That's...exciting. However, I love Tim Roth, have since Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead (check it out- made of awesome), and so I felt obligated to give Lie to Me a try.
The only trend I'll be rocking is slap bracelets, because I live for danger. Tetanus? Lockjaw? Bring it on. Screw those rubber bracelets, I'll be supporting my empty cause via strips of rusty steel.
