The room is 105 degrees at all times. I don't know what's magical about this temperature, but it causes tiny rivers of perspiration to follow little Oregon Trails down one's face, arms, back, legs and other places one shouldn't mention. Except I have to because the whole room stinks like unmentionables. Mainly because the men wear shorts like these:
And the room is carpeted. CARPETED!I'm not a huge exercise person anyway. I wouldn't be going to this place at all if I
a) didn't live 4 blocks away
b) didn't have such an affinity for holiday foods in large quantities
c) didn't consider yoga to be one of those "sports" you can half-ass your way through and still see results
d) didn't have a friend already enrolled and applying prohibition era mobster-like pressure
But being a known fainter, I was still scared. What if I'm bending back looking at the wall and - boom - I go down like an anvil on an accident-prone coyote? It's hard to get back up from that without looking not awesome. Like running for a bus. This was a valid concern. However I made it through the first class (while watching old hats occasionally crouch in the fetal position or run for the door with a green face). I even made it through the second. And then the third. And I'll tell you what, if you can get through it (and if you've ever spent a summer in Louisiana, you can get through it) - it makes eating two molasses cookies a day for breakfast all the sweeter.
However - it should come as no surprise that I remain a cynical yoga-ist. I refuse to do the stupid audible breathing and I refuse to say "namaste" at the end of class. There's maybe one brown body on average in that whole room and it just makes us all sound like paleface assholes. And if they don't like it (they don't) then they can passive aggressively suggest it so (they do).
This didn't have much to do with Christmas at all, did it. Poo.
So what's new with y'all? I joined a book club.
