Yoga

So this morning I participated in one of the dumber events of my life…a yoga class. Realizing that I have never shown an interest in those mind/body-type exercises before, it remains unclear why I thought this would be a good idea, but at this point in my life I have just started accepting my random acts of lunacy as par for the course. Now I have recently begun to tire of my regular workout routine, which takes place in a dungeon-like gym with a cast of characters that would frighten even the most dedicated of body-builders. Not only has my routine become, well, routine- consisting of hour after hour of jogging in place on a souped-up hamster wheel, but my exercising companions are highly obnoxious. The men, thick-necked meatheads who can probably lift weights larger than their IQ, lounge about the machines in no rush to leave their social scene no matter how inane the conversation. A word to the wise here- if your neck is bigger around than your thigh, it’s time to step away from the bench-press and go get yourself a life.

**On a side note, I have never understood why skinny people continue to frequent gyms. It’s highly disconcerting to find yourself huffing on the Stairmaster beside a perfectly manicured freak of nature who’s barely glistening in her tiny sports bra and rather inappropriately skimpy bottoms. I mean really, if you’re not even going to pretend to do an abdominal workout, do we really have to see your midriff? People who have 12% body fat should leave the treadmills to those of us who really need them and go eat a piece of cake. If, by the grace of God, I had been blessed with one of those stick-like frames, you could sooner find me on a bar stool than a weight bench. But alas, it’s all in the genes, and no matter how many pairs I try on, my ass still doesn’t seem to fit.

Anyway, back to the yoga, I saw a sign for Hot Yoga and assumed that was the hip place so I signed up for a class. Yeah, turns out “hot” doesn’t so much mean “popular” as it does “excruciatingly, ridiculously sweltering.” When I enter the room and discover it is hotter than the tenth level of Hell, I figure the air conditioner must be broken at first. Curiously enough, my fellow classmates don’t seem bothered by this at all. They’re all lying peacefully on their mats, breathing normally as I gasp for air and run toward the windows, which by the way, are firmly shut. Obviously I’m in the pre-class sauna, designed to warm the muscles before moving in to the cool yoga room. I wish.

Now for those of you who have never attempted yoga at all, it is a series of movements designed to place your body in the most uncomfortable, unnatural and completely unflattering positions ever conceived. Not only are you expected to twist your limbs as if they were not comprised of bones, but you are to do it with a peaceful expression on your face, while breathing through your nose and ignoring the sweat drenching your entire body. I am sorry, but please don’t talk to me about finding some sort of inner peace while I’m holding my leg over my head in a room that’s 110 degrees. Why don’t you talk to me about finding a ceiling fan, before I stab you in the eye. I’m not sure what phys-ed class you took, but nausea and dizziness are NOT normal and should result in the end of your workout not a commendation for your backbend. Now this guy’s talking about touching your head to your knee to flush out your A-Semicolon, which is apparently both a punctuation mark and an internal organ- a dirty one at that. . Of course it is true that you can block out thoughts of the world during yoga, which would be very calming, if only they weren’t replaced with gasps for air and prayers for salvation.

Though they promised I would leave feeling energized and invigorated, I can barely make it up the five flights to my apartment, and very seriously consider calling the paramedics, but by the time they made it up all the stairs I’d be a goner anyway. So, I lay there directly below the fan, considering my Last Will and Testament, until my heart begins to beat normally. I stand on the scale, figuring I must have sweat off at least five pounds, only to find I have not lost an ounce. So now I have actually paid money to stand swooning in an overheated room in 80-degree weather and attempt to contort my body in the name of exercise, only to find a short time later that my dreams of a red-carpet figure are still unrealized and in addition, I can no longer stand upright. For every muscle that stretches must contract, even those you never knew you had.

Alas, there is no easy answer to exercise, but if my choices are over-muscled meatheads and their pencil-thin girlfriends turning a weight-room in to a club-scene, or lean-bodied contortionists channeling energy and strength in a supportive environment…you’ll find me on the treadmill.