Suffice it to say that things have been a little hectic around here for the last few months. Hectic wonderful, but still hectic. Carving time out for myself to work out is difficult, but I have found that if I don't do it I become kind of like one of those characters in a horror movie, the ones that always seem like they're barely clinging to sanity, the ones that always end up in the straight jacket by the end of the film. In an effort to avoid that fate, I made time to get to hot yoga on Tuesday night.
Here's what's awesome about hot yoga: The heat in the room makes you more flexible. The heat also makes it so you are less sore the next day, at least for me. And every time I've gone to hot yoga the lights have been very dim, which is a good thing because it makes it hard to make out the smelly, sweaty people around you.
My class Tuesday night began like most classes do: child's pose. The teacher, in his perfectly-suited-to-yoga voice said, 'Let your forehead melt into the mat and leave your day at the door. This hour is just for you.'
I breathed deeply. An hour just for me... I could already feel the sweat dripping onto my forehead, but that was okay. This guy, this teacher, was going to make it all worth it.
And then the rap music started. Not even the bleeped-out versions you hear on the radio. This was hard-core-make-you-blush rap. I actually love working out to that kind of music, but hearing it during yoga was a little disconcerting.
'Down dog!' the teacher barked. Gone was the sweet instructor from the beginning of class, the one I was sure was going to 'invite' me into a pose. As he walked around the room, he started shouting orders. 'Heels down!' 'Fingers spread!' 'Get your EFFING BUTTS in the air!'
The whole hour went this way. I was so confused most of the time, partially from the sweat flowing in rivers into my eyes, partially from the way in which I felt like I was in boot camp for the United States Army.
When the class was over, I had to take a few minutes to towel off and wipe up the sweat pool around me. The teacher came up to me, shook my hand and said, 'It was an honor practicing with you.'
Usually a woman in her thirties can tell pretty quickly whether she likes something or not, but I can't even answer that simple question. In some ways, the class was awesome. Two days later, and my abdominals still feel sore. But in some ways, the ways in which I felt like I carved an entire hour out of my life only to be yelled at, I didn't like it at all.
Here's what I do know: I've never been happier to walk into 33 degree weather in my life.
And, more importantly, I maintained sanity at least one day longer.