Tuesday, March 8, 2011


So I didn’t realize that there are so many different types of yoga, and I don’t mean just different poses and beginner verses advance and hot verses not. I went to a yoga studio called Bikram yoga. Never heard of it, thought it was just a granola yoga name for the studio. BUT it was a different bread all together, for one, they had two people working the desk (unheard of) they had TWO changing rooms (wha tha?) and they had lockers (I know right? I though yoga people where all zen and too cool to stoop to theft).

So as I am waiting in the hall for the current class to end, the other main difference I notice is the amount of men in this class, it is at least 1/3 men (about 60 in the class). The doors open and the reddest, sweatiest, most tired looking group of people I have ever seen start to saunter/stumble out. When it is my turn to enter, I immediately regret my decision of coming as it is so hot (40 degrees Celsius) and there is no zen yoga paraphernalia just a big empty room that has a weird diagonal wall that throws off my center line when I am trying to align myself in front of the mirror (so stupid).

I do my usual pre-class ritual, sit there looking like I know what the hell I am doing, but really I am people watching and checking out everyone around me. The man next to me (decked out in TIGHT lulu) has the biggest pecs I have ever seen, like two cantaloupes taped under his shirt. He catches me staring at his pecks and does one of those moves where one peck flexes and then the other one does, I laughed out of awkwardness, not impressiveness. Making a mental note to not look to my left ever again I scan the rest of the class, one girl has the same yoga matt and the same water bottle as me, clearly she has good taste and we can be friends, maybe she will comment me on my top and I will say I like her shorts and we will be yoga buddies forever and have post class fruit picnics with....wait...does she have a neck tattoo? I don’t think I can handle that in a friendship.

As I am weight obsessed I scrutinize each woman’s body in the class (I do this where ever I am: seminars, stores, parties, I can’t help it) and decide that I am yet again larger than most of the woman here, DAMIT!

Class is about to start and a straggler comes in late and sets up his mat directly in front of me, he starts sweating immediately and I get the pungent smell of curry and mould magnified a million times from the steamy hot room, good this place is probably crawling with bacteria, why do I put myself in these situations? Oh right, to be skinny.

Instead of a normal yoga class when the lights are turned on slowly and the teacher has a calm soothing voice, a drill sergeant comes in and snaps on the lights, she barks orders the WHOLE time, she never shuts up, what the f*ck kind of yoga is this? We start with this weird breathing exercise that makes me feel like I am at a cult meeting and wonder when the kool-aid starts. Everyone is acting like it is completely normal to breathe this raspy throat air noise thing, I feel perverted listening to everyone sound like they are about to climax. Finally we start with the poses, I rock them all of course, the cult leader calls out to one of the new students who looks like they are about to pass out (literally looks like she forgets where she is) and asks another student to go her some juice (I stifle a laugh because I picture her coming back with glasses of poisoned kool-aid and someone with a nose ring like a bull shoots me a dagger look, I pretend to cough and ignore him, but I am scared that he is the assistant cult leader).

Mouldy curry man is creeping closer and closer to my matt, his toe nails are gross and have gunk under them (yoga peeps are supposed to be clean and cool! Didn’t he get the memo?) so I keep inching my mat away from him, and actually retreat backwards at one point when he lost the grip on his foot and it flung down towards the ground and some of his foot sweat droplets landed on ME! Ick gross sick!

I barely make it through this class, and boy do I mean barely, as in I had to sit out a lot of moves.

I am so hot, I need air, the girl on my other side of me (opposite Mr. Pecktacular) sees my beet face and fans me a little with the side of her matt, I smile gratefully and she mouths that there is only 5 minutes left (I love her).

I have probably sweated out a half litre of water, that is OK as I drank 3 litres of water today, and 1 during the two hours I was in that heat cell, and I am sure I will drink another one when I am done.

Class dismissed (yay the pain is over) I rush out of there faster than Usain Bolt, throw my clothes on over my sweaty everything, and rush outside, never ever ever have I been happy to deal with Canadian winter in March. I am never coming back here, this class is insane. Final relief of the heat, the cold night air on my hot skin brings me back to reality and I am starving and light headed from the crazy-cult-heat-oven. My face stays beet red for about an hour after class, craving a shower and carbs, I rushed home (where my fiancé hugged me and then recoiled at my soaking wet body and musty damp gym smell, told me I look like I am going to barf and to go shower before he does) just before getting in the shower I jump on the scale.

Two pounds lighter.

Totally coming back to this insane class tomorrow.

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