“The heat makes you all bendy and stuff..”, my friend tells me over the phone. I stifle a giggle thinking about my husband’s reaction to that revelation….then roll my eyes. We are talking about Hot Yoga. I have committed to taking these hot yoga classes with another friend. The thought of once again being a physically inclined creature should be motivation enough but it was the “special” that appealed to my frugal nature and pushed me to commit. Two weeks of unlimited classes for twenty dollars……deal!
Now, as limber and graceful as I am (ahem), I ,believe it or not, have never done yoga. I have no idea what Downward Facing Dog is or Sun Salutations….blah, blah, blah. Being a child of the 70’s-80’s , the word yoga still brings to mind ex-hippies donning leotards sitting cross-legged in a room with macrame plant holders wearing what they want you to believe is a meditation induced smile but is really result of a “happy brownie” meeting all the while not noticing that they reek of patchouli………
(Happy Brownie Meeting….sounds like someone has a new Urban Dictionary entry!)
I had been intrigued by the thought of Hot Yoga since I heard a local radio DJ raving about it on 103.9’s morning show. It sounded challenging enough… 105 degree room, yoga (whatever that is)…..so when my partner in crime (hereafter called Yoga Buddy or YB) suggested it one day, I was all for it. We did our due diligence and visited the two studios that were closest to us. They had similar specials, similar schedules, similar perky women at the front desk…..the deciding factor was location, location, location.
“It’ll be fun.” I said, while plastering on a forced smile. Apprehension was slowly creeping in along with visions of myself passing out and/or puking all over a yoga mat whilst being sweaty and red-faced. An hour and a half! Oh…..joy…happy…happy….joy….hmmmm. Memories of a Las Vegas/golf/heat stroke episode kept coming to mind. On the plus side, it would be YB’s first hot yoga class too. So we could look out for each other. She could wipe the vomitus from my face as I lay passed out on the floor and make sure I don’t fall into an inappropriate position. I would do the same for her unless we happened to both be passed out on the floor, legs askew.
We planned to attend the noon class. I began preparation that morning. It was recommended that you eat two to three hours before class and be well-hydrated. This somewhat ruined my usual morning routine of copious amounts of coffee and late breakfast. All in the name of fitness and well-being, right?
big towel, mat, sweat rag- check, check and check
sports bra, yoga shorts- check, uhhhh…..crap! I’ve got yoga pants but no shorts. The shorts are a must. It says so on the pamphlet! Yoga pants, meet the scissors….
yoga shorts- check
YB calls ten minutes before she is supposed to pick me up.
“What are you wearing?”
“Sports bra…yoga pants, er shorts. You?”
YB sounds a bit panicked. The idea of wearing just a sports bra fills her with the same amount of glee that I have when it is time to clean out the drains and sinktraps in the house. For YB it is definitely tank top over sports bra. I on the other hand, don’t really care. I can always pull out the I’ve-had-three-kids card. (See, kids are good for something.) The conversation then ambles southward and YB’s arch nemesis rears its ugly head….panty lines. YB has had a long and often puzzling hatred of the aforementioned. I don’t recall if I’ve ever seen her sporting any but if you got her and Joan Crawford in a room together they could duke it out over the travesty of wire hangers and panty lines.
The problem is we are talking yoga pants. Now if you have yoga body, then yoga pants look great. If you don’t have yoga body, then I’d recommend just not looking in the mirror…..ever. Believe me, it’s better that way. Don’t heed my advice and well…they’re yoga pants. They are tight and highlight every lump, bump and panty line. Unless, you wear a thong. Then you just have to deal with the lumps and bumps and inevitable….let’s just call it, rope burn.
YB brings up another yoga pant problem that no matter how yoga your body may be, is inescapable…..the dreaded…camel toe. Since I find that term to be quite vulgar, it will hereby be known as dromedary digit or DD. (Urban Dictionary….I’m on a roll.) I have yet to find a pair of yoga pants that address the DD dilemna. Of course, since I am not a yoga expert, I am not a yoga pant expert. The only reason I even have a pair of yoga pants is because that roll down waist was very comfortable when I was very pregnant.
Throwing all shame to the wind, dromedary digit in check, we race down the freeway to the studio. We are, of course, running behind and are in danger of being late. Luckily, we arrive just in time and don’t have to suffer the humiliation of being the badly dressed newbies who get locked out of class. I have to fight every urge to run. Not due to my fear of yoga failure but because you are forced to de-shoe near the door and have to pad around the place bare-foot. The place has a definite “odor” and it’s not patchoulie.
I push aside thoughts of foot fungus and tip-toe into the room to find my mat. There is a definite “odor” in the yoga room, as well. It smells of old sweat, BO and a faint something I can’t quite nail down…oh, humiliation. I lie down on the mat, looking up at the ceiling enjoying the comfortable warmth. Then it begins……..
So how did it go? You should find out for yourself and try it. I managed to take ten classes in my trial period time, squeezing everything out of that twenty dollars as possible. It was hot. It was sweaty. It was challenging. I also realized that I have most likely spent a good chunk of my life in a state of dehydration. That may explain the surliness….or not.
Oh yes, thanks to some awkward locker room moments….I now know all I need to know about yoga pant/short procedure.