My First Yoga Class

I went to a yoga class today.

Seriously.

I signed up for the 8-week series at Hot Yoga. I had done this a few times about three years ago, and it is as good a workout as there is. Yoga is a welcome break from my usual fitness activity of running, but this go round, I wanted to take away more of the integration of the mind, body and spirit.

So, I signed up for a yoga class. A hot yoga class. This is where they heat the studio to a balmy 95 degrees. No, there’s no real reason to do this, other than the fact that you sweat a lot and it’s supposed to be good for you. I’ve done two marathons and I sweat more in 75 minutes of hot yoga than in 4 hours of running.

And, you pay to do this, which doesn’t make a lot of sense when you can go twist and bend and point and salute the sun in the Kroger parking lot on a day like today and get your sweat on just the same. But I did. I paid money to turn and contort and try my best to see if I could fit in the overhead bin while sweat drips into my eyeballs and the sweat stings so bad I wished I hadn’t woken up at 5 AM. Did I mention that the class begins promptly at 6?

So why pay for such torture when you can get it for free on your own? Because it was sooooooooooo worth it. If you really try and concentrate, if you give your all and focus, you’ll feel the mental rewards, and they’ll outweigh the physical pain. So, even though I felt like my body wanted to take a nap all day, my mind has never been so alert. I feel like I got more done today despite my tired muscles. I checked items off lists like no one’s business. I got stuff done.

And there’s another reason why you pay for this stuff, why you give money to stand inside a studio that’s hotter than the Kroger parking lot with 20 other people while you look in the wall-to-wall mirrors at yourself looking foolish: the yoga farts.

I heard this happened, and I guess I couldn’t remember from last time whether or not any of my fellow wannabe yogis let one rip. Apparently, when you’re so intently focused on forming a triangle and balancing on one toe, your mind isn’t thinking about the gas brewing deep within. So, when it’s time for that baby to make its exit, your mind can’t stop making sure your left palm is facing this way while your elbow is over there and your neck is at this angle and your knees aren’t where they usually are so that you can put a muzzle on it and minimize its effect. So, you let one fly.

And there we were, 73 minutes into our routine, cooling down and focusing on ourselves and our mind and all that crap, and someone across the room cut the cheese. And everyone heard it.

That’s what you pay for, folks.