Yesterday I took my first-ever yoga class. Here are some of the things I learned:
1. Bikram is a hot yoga purportedly named after the fellow who invented it. Though during the 90-minute marathon I was fairly fucking confident it was called Bikram because someone had flicked a Bic and rammed it up my ass for the entire class.
2.Hot yoga is fucking hot. You know that Spanish lady who thinks she owns the sun? Well, take that amount of crazy, convert it to the surface heat on her alleged star property and blast it into a small sealed room. Like Downward-Fucking-Dog-in-Heat hot. It’s taxing.
3. While hot yoga doesn’t necessarily relate to how many hot chicks will be in the class, typically, there are more than a few. Sweaty, scantily clad bendy ones.
4. Hot, sweaty, scantily clad bendy yogirls aren’t interested in sweaty, half-naked hairy dudes whose closest encounter with any semblance of bend came during a scuba-diving lesson in 1983.
5. Describing myself on the phone as a “younger, better-looking George Clooney” is about as accurate as saying I’m a “taller, whiter, less dead Gary Coleman.” Not really yoga-related, but the thought did occur to me as I glimpsed the haunting doughboy reflection of my Chia Torso in the studio’s steamed window.
6. Sweaty short-shorts on yogirls: good. Sweaty short-shorts on yoguys: very, very fucking bad.
7. I need to buy longer shorts. Preferably with built-in underwear or some kind of reinforced, elasticized safety netting.
8. Poses I’ve already mastered: Awkward, Painful, Disturbing and Rest (this last one I can only do in an disturbingly awkward and painful way).
9. Expect to sweat like Louie Anderson at a luau. Only way fucking more. Seriously, yo – bring water. In a venti trough, if possible.
10. Cramps suck. (Shout-out to the girl who helped me out of the studio!)
Verdict: Yoga is fucking hard. Namaste away from it.