Bikram Schmikram

I walked out of the yoga studio tonight next to this man who looked like I felt: battle weary and wet.

He looked over at me as we crossed the street to get to the crowded parking lot and said, “It takes me about an hour to feel human again after these classes. I do nothing but sit and drink water.”

This, of course, was my cue to say something sweet and charming, but I was too worn out to form a sentence. I may have grunted. I can’t be sure.

If he hadn’t been gay, I might have made more of an effort.

 

So I made it through my third Bikram class. I think I’m addicted. What else would explain this compulsion to contort my body in a heated room for an hour-and-a-half? I mean it takes a forklift to get me out of bed some days. Yet, I make the drive over to this place after a full day’s work and with laundry still to do at home just so I can try to touch my head to the floor from the standing position and walk out afterward bone tired and soaked to the skin in my own sweat. Ewww.

I’m digging it, though, while I’m doing it. And the next day, my skin’s all dewy, and I have a ton of energy. I’m meeting all kinds of cool, if smelly, people, and my size fours are fitting really, really well these days.

And I’ll be damned if my forehead isn’t getting closer to that bamboo floor, too.

 

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