Good sex and a good workout have a lot in common, besides being interchangeable. It leaves you fulfilled, deeply content, sure that you could never do that again and pretty sure you don’t want to either. Until the next morning. Or evening. When the glow is starting to fade and your thoughts are wandering to when you might next get an unoccupied house. Or treadmill. Depending on your inclination. That’s what my trainer said.
Eventually this wise twenty-four year old found himself a full-time job, so I then had to look for a new method of self-flagellation for eating that chocolate cake last night.
Hot yoga, I thought, was a good idea. By their own admission, it’s hot, dress code – skimpy, offers 27 different positions, half of which are done lying down, how bad could it be?
I got there as early as I could to get a place as far behind in the room as possible. However the instructor felt the energy was spread too thin and moved me into the third row between yellow cycling shorts and zebra print sports bra – who I was forced to notice, preferred her armpits au naturel!
Straight ahead of me, a little Japanese lady, about 4 feet 10 inches turned to ask me “First time?” and turned away before I could answer.
Hardly would the instructor begin the sentence, “Standing on your toes, turn rig….” and 4.10 would turn right, raise one leg up, reach one hand out, contort the body as if it was made of rubber and complete the posture. Still deciding whether to breathe in or out, I was sure she had re-built Hiroshima all by herself. While in the trig-aasan.
Next to her, was this very bouncy woman, who thought nothing of reeling loose question after question to the instructor about the ‘correct position’ while the rest of us stayed with both our hands stretched out in front of us, on our toes, knees bent, in a ‘pretend to be sitting on a chair’ posture. Go on, try that. Now hold it while we play “Who wants to be a Millionaire?”
The first two rows were full of these hateful people who neither stumbled, nor grunted, the kind that my Goan friend would call ‘such bloody, enthu, cutlets man!’
Personally I was content with watching the ones ahead bend backwards until we could hear their bones singing a song to welcome sciatica. I even thought of doing a little ‘High five’ with their feet so high in the air. But the instructor would have none of it. I think the heat made her irritable.
Eventually, bathed in my own sweat and slightly nauseous, I left.
Needless to say, the most difficult posture is the first one – going back there!