Not-So-Hot Yoga

Not-So-Hot Yoga

Get me Outta Here

Beads of sweat emerge on my big toe. Sweat is not supposed to bead on your big toe, is it? It's so hot and muggy in here, I can't think. Left foot on right thigh? Right arm in front, or behind the left? Fingers laced, or not? This is most excruciating game of Twister I've never played.

I'm sweating and moaning at the Mount Yoga Center. I'm here with my is-she-still-a-yes-I think-so friend, Louise. Louise is 27, blond and South African. She looks like a younger, smoother version of Cameron Diaz. She claims to be addicted to Bikram (hot) yoga and had asked me to join her several times. "It's amazing," Louise says. "You feel so good after, and it's good for you." I've heard of it, and read an account in O magazine that made Bikram sound interesting. It's been so long since I read the article I forgot the excruciating part.

The morning before the class, I tell my flat mate, Amy, I'm going to Bikram. "Oh, I don't know about that. It's really hot and yoga classes are long, like, 90 minutes. I always thought they were boring. Do you like yoga?" I wasn't sure. I'd done yoga once, maybe twice before. From what I remembered, it was difficult. And boring. I couldn't tell if I was burning off breakfast or just burning time. It had been awhile since I'd tried yoga, and I'm keen to try new sports in New Zealand: I enjoyed squash (once I recovered from my pulled back muscle); survived the public spectacle and mild humiliation of pole dancing at a bar; partner danced (Ceroc) without bloodying too many toes and will kick a soccer ball with Finley, if only to demonstrate Mom's lack of coordination.

I texted Louise: "How long is yoga class? Can I leave after 1 hr? Do I need a mat?" Her response: "Unfortunately u can't leave after an hour. Wel u can but u mis the best bit of the clas: relaxation time! Bring a yoga mat, big towel and big bottle of water x" Ugh. No cutting out early. And I'd borrow a mat from the studio. "I'm bit nervous about this," I text. Louise's response:

"No u wil b fine think of the health benefits...wel that's wot I keep teling myself the instructor says its a gift for your body."

I arrive to claim my "gift" at the same time as Louise. The studio's located in an office park, on a drab side street near downtown Mount. We climb the stairs to the second floor reception area. The studio owner, Erica, wears black yoga pants and an orange tank top revealing sinewy arms and a muscular chest. Maybe Bikram's worth the effort, for a body like that? Erica relieves me of $15, telling me I've paid for the rest of the week if I want to attend more classes. Then, she says, "This is the most important thing you need to start with: Your breathing." Erica holds her hands in front of her chest. She then either opens her elbows wide, or closes them (I can't recall) while inhaling, then exhaling. The sound reminds me of something I saw once on the National Geographic Channel: It was Tibetan monks, engaged in something called throat singing. "OH-ahhhh...." A dozen frogs had gotten stuck in Erica's wind pipe. I'm startled. Throat singing, so soon? Shouldn't she buy me a drink first?

Louise and I stash our clothes and enter the studio. It feels like a hammam: a Turkish steam bath. Not a dry heat, but a wet one. I hear the whir of the torture device – a heater that brings the room to a roasty 35+  degrees Celsius (95-100 Fahrenheit). The heat is designed to warm muscles, promote flexibility and induce sweating, which, in theory, will flush out toxins. About a dozen detainees, I mean, devotees, stand on mats and perform poses to Erica's instruction. "Okay, arms up. Reach to your right. Now, your left..." There's no sound except Erica's voice and the heater. No music. Oh my God. No music. I'm trapped in a room with a dozen sweaty people and we have NO MUSIC. I search the room for a clock. Nothing. I have no idea how long the torture will last. We perform (actually, the other students perform – I fumble) a series of poses including the Eagle ("Stand with your feet together, arms by your sides/Draw the left foot upward, bending the knee and wrap the left foot around your right leg as you rest the back of your left thigh on the right thigh. Cross your arms at the elbows, left over right.Join your palms, keeping your fingers upward/Inhale and hold the posture while you breathe"), the Half-spinal twist and the Get-me-the-hell-outta-here pose (I made that last one up -wishful thinking).

Eagle Pose

 I watch the woman in front of me. She's in her twenties, with wavy brown hair and a nipped-in waist. She wears a bright blue sports bra and short shorts. A band of sweat starts at her waistband and descends during class. A small roll develops around her middle when she sits and bends. See? I think. Even thin people store fat.

I didn't realize it until now, but I'm storing in my thighs. I usually don't think about how my thighs look. I'm a runner, so I care how they move. They move well. They're strong and muscular. Only, in the haze of the BikramBikram. Shit. Get me outta here. I thought yoga was supposed to quiet the mind? I'm impervious to mind-quieting. My thoughts chase me on runs, although they're kinder and gentler while I'm pounding a trail, road or beach. 15 minutes into Bikram, I've solidified my position in the universe as a runner.

Just 75 more minutes and I can escape the hot box. The room smells of damp rubber and only faintly of sweat. This is surprising, considering we look as though you could wring us out. "Now, lay on your stomach, squeeze your abs and raise your legs," says Erica. I struggle to raise my feet several inches from the ground. Meanwhile, a 60-something year-old man with a ring of short gray hair has levitated his legs so far in the air, I search for a wire suspended from the ceiling. There's got to be a trick. How the hell does he do that? I glance at Louise. She doesn't seem frazzled or foggy and completes each pose without moaning or grumbling.

Erica helps the woman in blue in front of me stretch even deeper, easing her shoulders down while her knees are bent, her back to the mat. My version of that pose has me half-kneeling, half lying down. Erica comes over to help. "Your hips seem pretty tight," she says. True. I'm not big on stretching. Anything that cuts into post-run coffee time is just a distraction. I'm paying the price, in this hot box, for my impatience and inflexibility. Also, my balance is poor. While the rest of the class perches easily on one foot, twisting their arms in front, I hop, bobble and wobble, giving up after about 10 seconds. Each minute, each pose, fogs my mind a bit more. Right leg: Where? Left arm: Huh? Can't. Think. Too. Hot. I'm like Superman, exposed to Kryptonite. I need an antidote.

I'm pretty sure the antidote (besides getting the hell outta here) is a chocolate milk shake. I've heeded Louise's advice and last ate about two hours ago (thank God, because one of the stomach-lying poses would've made me puke if I were full). Now, not only am I fuzzy, sweaty and miserable, I'm FREAKIN' HUNGRY! I can't stomach the thought of solid food. But a nice, cool, calorie-dense chocolate milkshake would do the trick. Normally, I reserve milkshakes for after childbirth. It's been nearly six years since my last shake (unless you count sips of the kids' shakes, which I don't). 60 minutes into Bikram, rational thought has left the building. So, despite the fact I'm supposed to be engaging in a healthy activity, I'm already planning to sabotage my efforts with fat and sugar. I wonder if I can pretend to leave for the restroom and make a break for it, instead. I've borrowed a yoga mat, though. I don't want to leave it behind, and I don't want to take it, because then it would be obvious I'm running away. I stay for the so-called "relaxation" part of Bikram. I lie on my back, n the corpse pose (yes, I looked it up online, and it's called the "corpse," which is what I would be after another Bikram class) grateful for the fact nothing's bent into a pretzel. My hands rest on my stomach. Erica says, "Dawn, keep your hands at your sides." I can't even nail the corpse pose. Figures.

Which way do you suppose best stops time in its tracks: Labor, or Bikram Yoga? Both feel eternal. I'd suffer natural childbirth again before laboring through another hot yoga class. I'm 99.9% sure neither will happen.

I've never been so happy to greet 2 p.m. Ever. I rush into the blessedly cool air of the changing room. I peel off one layer of sweaty clothing and head for the door. Louise had just left. Erica, the owner, sits cross-legged and Zen-like, in front of the window. She asks, "So, are you and Louise still friends?" "Barely," I joke. Keeping the friend. Ditching yoga.

My small chocolate post-yoga Burger King milkshake restores brain function. Next time, I'll pay $15 NOT to participate a hot yoga class. I'll take myself for a run, and maybe a milkshake. A nice, cool, thick shake.