WELCOME TO HELL
This is the type of signage that I feel might be more appropriate above the entrance to my latest haunt, a newly opened Bikram Yoga studio. Not as a testament to the experience of actually doing Bikram Yoga, but because --- as you may have heard --- they keep it really, really hot in there.
Today's moms seek variety (beyond the variety found in what's being thrown, screamed, or complained about at home). Some of us join moms clubs or endure aerobics classes. Some of us take up jewelry making or scrapbooking. And some of us (read: me) are crazy and masochistic enough to be a great target for almost any dare. I try things to prove either that I can do it or that the darer is crazy. Of course, the last time I tried in a big way to prove the former I ended up with a heinous tattoo on my hip that I abhor but have no idea how to painlessly remove.
I digress.
My latest challenge of this nature was Bikram Yoga. I'd heard a bit about it here and another bit about it there. I'd heard that it was great for one's overall health, great for releasing toxins, great for flexibility. I'd heard that it involved postures the names of which I'd never be able to pronounce. And I'd heard that it was hot. Not hot in a Paris Hilton "That's Hot" kind of way either. The other kind of hot. The kind of hot that makes you sweat your brains out (possibly literally). The kind of hot that could conceivably make you pass out, vomit, or die mid-class. The kind of hot where people such as myself proclaim, "I live in Arizona and I still can't hang out in this studio for more than six seconds" hot.
When the studio opened next door to my son's preschool the week before school began, I wondered, Is it fate? And then, in response to what really did sound like a dare from a good friend I agreed to give it a go. Once. Just so I could say I did it and didn't die.
On that first morning, as I sat in the cool, comfortable, lobby with gorgeous incense wafting around me and photos on the wall of Indian men wrapped around themselves like cobras (and looking mighty comfortable in such positions), I wondered why I needed to go any further to find peace. It was quiet. It smelled good. There was a shower in the locker room that no one under the age of 25 would disturb me while using. Couldn't I just take a 90-minute shower and call it a day?
But my friend brought me out of my fantasy with a summons. "Let's go into the studio and warm up!" She was way too enthusiastic about entering hell. Plus, I couldn't fathom why one would need to warm up for a class that was held in a room that, at that moment, was hotter than it might get outside all day.
"How hot is it in there, exactly?" I asked her.
"It's not bad. 95 degrees. Come on, you live in Arizona. You can take it."
We entered the room. I took four steps and laid my yoga mat, towel, and 32-oz jug of water on the ground. I then turned on my heel and headed back to the lobby. There was no way I was going to hang out in there any longer than necessary. And the fact that there was a woman stretching with a gallon of water next to her --- literally, folks, a 64-oz jug --- terrified me. My jug held only 32 ounces. I needed to hit the lobby vending machine and add to my supply --- to keep me alive and all for the next 90 minutes. In addition, I might add that I'd quickly concluded that there was no way it was 95 degrees in that room. I'm very familiar with what 95 degrees feels like. This was not 95 degrees.
Upon exiting, I asked the owner, who is completely adorable (and very tiny and healthy to boot, motivating me a wee bit to go back inside the sauna), "I'm afraid to even ask, but what is the temperature in there?"
"105 degrees with 40% humidity!" she responded. Frankly, she seemed far too excited to share this information, like "the hotter the better, right?"
No. I was most sorry I asked.
But I tried to remain optimistic. When it was time for class to start, and only when it was time, I returned to the furnace.
Bikram yoga entails going through 26 poses, holding each one for one minute and then again for 30 seconds. The entire class takes 90 minutes. Thank God there was not a clock in that room because those minutes would have gone by like years. Amazingly, they went by somewhat quickly (emphasis on "somewhat"). I was so focused on the fact that I have no balance (really, I was hoping no one was focusing on me in the mirror as they tried to stand in the Dandayamana-Dhanurasana pose --- I told you they were hard to pronounce --- for fear that watching me wobble would throw everyone else off balance).
As we went through the 26 poses, one harrowing minute at a time (when they say you sweat, they are not kidding, and trying to stand in tree pose while the bottom of your foot and the inside of your thigh are as slick as an ice rink is harrowing at best), I began to have a frightening thought: "I think I might like this!" Perhaps I was momentarily delusional.
I can't say with any level of certainty that I ever got used to the heat. And at one point, our instructor extraordinaire commented that it wouldn't be long before the only thing we'd notice about the heat was when it wasn't hot enough. Somehow, I cannot believe such a thought will ever cross my mind. But I'll take her word for it.
All that said, it did feel like heat with a purpose. It was heat that allowed me to, through various poses only contortionists can master, touch every organ, gland, fiber, and cell of my being. It was heat that did not allow me to think about the laundry or the laundry list of to-dos because I was too busy listening to our instructor ordering us to "kick higher" while counting the drops of sweat as they poured from my forehead to my towel.
The most alluring aspect of this torture chamber was, I realized several hours later, the realization that none of us was there for anyone else. No of us was there to create a newly shaped body with which we hoped to impress the world. None of us was hoping to get validation from anyone else for who we are as moms, grandmothers, employees, or plain and simple women. None of our intentions involved other people. There was no arrogance. There were no agendas. Just twelve unique journeys folding and unfolding and evolving on their own terms.
Perhaps the concept was, from start to finish, simply too much of everything: too hot, too challenging, too bendy, too spiritual, too crazy. It was so overwhelming on so many levels that while my head said "Get out and don't ever come back," my soul said, "Stick with it. Do it again. I dare you." As I've mentioned, I have a hard time turning down a good dare.
If you have access to a Bikram Yoga studio in your area, give it a try. Just once. If you absolutely hate it, you've lost nothing but 90 minutes and about seven pounds of water weight. But if you become addicted, as I have, you've gained an amazing new way to add variety to your day, your life, and your journey on earth. Tell your kids you spent your morning trying to master the Dandayamana-Bibhaktapada-Janushirasana pose. Their confusion might stun them into silence for a few minutes! And the beauty of that experience, in and of itself, might very well be worth entering the furnace of hell.
Just once.
Today's moms seek variety (beyond the variety found in what's being thrown, screamed, or complained about at home). Some of us join moms clubs or endure aerobics classes. Some of us take up jewelry making or scrapbooking. And some of us (read: me) are crazy and masochistic enough to be a great target for almost any dare. I try things to prove either that I can do it or that the darer is crazy. Of course, the last time I tried in a big way to prove the former I ended up with a heinous tattoo on my hip that I abhor but have no idea how to painlessly remove.
I digress.
My latest challenge of this nature was Bikram Yoga. I'd heard a bit about it here and another bit about it there. I'd heard that it was great for one's overall health, great for releasing toxins, great for flexibility. I'd heard that it involved postures the names of which I'd never be able to pronounce. And I'd heard that it was hot. Not hot in a Paris Hilton "That's Hot" kind of way either. The other kind of hot. The kind of hot that makes you sweat your brains out (possibly literally). The kind of hot that could conceivably make you pass out, vomit, or die mid-class. The kind of hot where people such as myself proclaim, "I live in Arizona and I still can't hang out in this studio for more than six seconds" hot.
When the studio opened next door to my son's preschool the week before school began, I wondered, Is it fate? And then, in response to what really did sound like a dare from a good friend I agreed to give it a go. Once. Just so I could say I did it and didn't die.
On that first morning, as I sat in the cool, comfortable, lobby with gorgeous incense wafting around me and photos on the wall of Indian men wrapped around themselves like cobras (and looking mighty comfortable in such positions), I wondered why I needed to go any further to find peace. It was quiet. It smelled good. There was a shower in the locker room that no one under the age of 25 would disturb me while using. Couldn't I just take a 90-minute shower and call it a day?
But my friend brought me out of my fantasy with a summons. "Let's go into the studio and warm up!" She was way too enthusiastic about entering hell. Plus, I couldn't fathom why one would need to warm up for a class that was held in a room that, at that moment, was hotter than it might get outside all day.
"How hot is it in there, exactly?" I asked her.
"It's not bad. 95 degrees. Come on, you live in Arizona. You can take it."
We entered the room. I took four steps and laid my yoga mat, towel, and 32-oz jug of water on the ground. I then turned on my heel and headed back to the lobby. There was no way I was going to hang out in there any longer than necessary. And the fact that there was a woman stretching with a gallon of water next to her --- literally, folks, a 64-oz jug --- terrified me. My jug held only 32 ounces. I needed to hit the lobby vending machine and add to my supply --- to keep me alive and all for the next 90 minutes. In addition, I might add that I'd quickly concluded that there was no way it was 95 degrees in that room. I'm very familiar with what 95 degrees feels like. This was not 95 degrees.
Upon exiting, I asked the owner, who is completely adorable (and very tiny and healthy to boot, motivating me a wee bit to go back inside the sauna), "I'm afraid to even ask, but what is the temperature in there?"
"105 degrees with 40% humidity!" she responded. Frankly, she seemed far too excited to share this information, like "the hotter the better, right?"
No. I was most sorry I asked.
But I tried to remain optimistic. When it was time for class to start, and only when it was time, I returned to the furnace.
Bikram yoga entails going through 26 poses, holding each one for one minute and then again for 30 seconds. The entire class takes 90 minutes. Thank God there was not a clock in that room because those minutes would have gone by like years. Amazingly, they went by somewhat quickly (emphasis on "somewhat"). I was so focused on the fact that I have no balance (really, I was hoping no one was focusing on me in the mirror as they tried to stand in the Dandayamana-Dhanurasana pose --- I told you they were hard to pronounce --- for fear that watching me wobble would throw everyone else off balance).
As we went through the 26 poses, one harrowing minute at a time (when they say you sweat, they are not kidding, and trying to stand in tree pose while the bottom of your foot and the inside of your thigh are as slick as an ice rink is harrowing at best), I began to have a frightening thought: "I think I might like this!" Perhaps I was momentarily delusional.
I can't say with any level of certainty that I ever got used to the heat. And at one point, our instructor extraordinaire commented that it wouldn't be long before the only thing we'd notice about the heat was when it wasn't hot enough. Somehow, I cannot believe such a thought will ever cross my mind. But I'll take her word for it.
All that said, it did feel like heat with a purpose. It was heat that allowed me to, through various poses only contortionists can master, touch every organ, gland, fiber, and cell of my being. It was heat that did not allow me to think about the laundry or the laundry list of to-dos because I was too busy listening to our instructor ordering us to "kick higher" while counting the drops of sweat as they poured from my forehead to my towel.
The most alluring aspect of this torture chamber was, I realized several hours later, the realization that none of us was there for anyone else. No of us was there to create a newly shaped body with which we hoped to impress the world. None of us was hoping to get validation from anyone else for who we are as moms, grandmothers, employees, or plain and simple women. None of our intentions involved other people. There was no arrogance. There were no agendas. Just twelve unique journeys folding and unfolding and evolving on their own terms.
Perhaps the concept was, from start to finish, simply too much of everything: too hot, too challenging, too bendy, too spiritual, too crazy. It was so overwhelming on so many levels that while my head said "Get out and don't ever come back," my soul said, "Stick with it. Do it again. I dare you." As I've mentioned, I have a hard time turning down a good dare.
If you have access to a Bikram Yoga studio in your area, give it a try. Just once. If you absolutely hate it, you've lost nothing but 90 minutes and about seven pounds of water weight. But if you become addicted, as I have, you've gained an amazing new way to add variety to your day, your life, and your journey on earth. Tell your kids you spent your morning trying to master the Dandayamana-Bibhaktapada-Janushirasana pose. Their confusion might stun them into silence for a few minutes! And the beauty of that experience, in and of itself, might very well be worth entering the furnace of hell.
Just once.
posted by Elizabeth at 1:09 PM
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