Tag Archives: HOT yoga

Baffles of the week: Friday Round-up v.2

Alright, so I’m not going to be consistent with these Friday updates, obviously, but who’s surprised?

Here are a couple of my double takes from the week (last week- -when I didn’t write a darn thing).

1.       Hot Yoga Breather Cheaters

I was indulging in my weekly (as weekly as my posts…) hot yoga torture ritual, and hazarded a glance to between my knees and to the back of the room after striking a pathetic downward-dog pose. I always like to check out what other sorts of people, beside the svelte faux-chested ladies that can wear their thighs like a tiara, attend the class. In addition to myself, I take note of which thing is not like the other.

As I am lifting my derrier to the heavens, and sneaking a peek, I’m surprised to see a feeble and withered looking gent with a shocking amount of hair all over his chest and back, and then I notice a tube coming from somewhere and linking to a large bottle-ish thing on the floor beside his mat. For a moment, I thought he had himself intravenously hooked up to a Camelback to stay hydrated, which I thought was weirdly clever, and then I realized that it was running to his schnoz. The hose was seriously long. I wondered if he knew that we were not going to running laps around the room at any point.

Some of you may think, “Wow. Kudos to an emaciatedand clearly unwell man schlepping an oxygen tank with an extra long hose so as not to interrupt his extended warrior pose,” but not this girl. As I heaved and sopped my way through an hour of torture, inhaling stale, 115 degree air, I contemplated whether he would be offended if I asked,

“Namaste, good sir. Does that tank there blow cool air for you, and if so, does it come in colors other than black?”

2.       Foam Caesar’s and Minimum Wage Worker Enthusiasm

I was making my weekly run to the ABC store for tequila when   When driving to the store the other day, I drove past a shopping center where a Little Caesar’s had just opened. (I had no idea anyone still ate their food). Out by the road was, I assume, a Little Caesar’s employee, bedecked in a huge foam costume depicting that fat Caesar guy with the nose that blends straight into his mouth. He was rocking out to some inaudible tune, waving a sign about cheap pizza and guaranteeing its goodness.

 I thought for a moment about what circumstance I would need to be in to be convinced to put on a suit and dance in public with apparent excitement for dough, sauce and cheese, but came up with nothing beyond a cocaine habit that needed funding, and even that was only plausible because there was a costume involved that would ensure anonymity.

But, THEN…

I drove a few more feet and there, beside the road, in khaki pants and a polo with the pizza joint’s logo, was a second employee, ALSO rocking out to invisible tunage, for no apparent reason. No costume. Same side of the road, so it wasn’t like he was catching rush hour in the other direction. Just a man. Pop and locking his heart out on the Parkway. I could think of nothing a manager could have said to convince this guy to get crazy on the roadside for pizza with no mask when there was a similar fool 15 feet away. And yet, there he was.

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Hot Yoga (or clammy, sopping wet yoga, in my case)

It took about two weeks to fully recover from almost a month of Euro frolicking. The coup de grace was a case of chronic sinusitis, which came about from inhaling germs coughed and sneezed freely by travelers and locals alike. I later learned that it is a very serious thing to get on an airplane when that swelling exists in your sinuses and ears. You risk bursting all sorts of important stuff and I can testify to experiencing a severe case of barometric distress when descending into Chicago. Scuba divers experience this and abort their dives, but I didn’t have time to ask the pilot if he would mind leveling out for a sec so I could equalize, since I was busy squeezing my head, praying, and mentally divvying out my personal property to friends and family (Shoe and bag collection, Harry Potter series in hardcover and soft, cd’s circa 1997, etc.) in the event of what felt like my impending death via blood vessel or head explosion.  About 3 in 100,000 people will ever experience it, and it is usually only a section of your head, unless you have a severe case. Like I did.

If you have a severe case, an imaginary metallic wire is wrapped around your eyes, molars (Yes. Your teeth.), weaved through sections of your brain, throat, and finally, your ears.  When the plane descends, which lasts for approximately 5 minutes, very strong travel gnomes grab each end of that wire and pull as hard as they can so that each of the above mentioned items feels both squeezed to bursting and sliced, all at the same time.

All of this to say, I did not work out at all last week. Pardon my melodramatic way to excuse my laziness, but that is how I do. The experience was truly akin to the seventh layer of hell on a good day, but it had no lasting affects, other than to scare me into never flying again should there be a hint of stuffiness in my noggin….but I’m milking it, regardless. (That is such a gross expression, so if you have suggestions with the same meaning, please post in the comment section)

My abstinence from physical activity was broken on Tuesday night when I was invited to “warm” yoga.

Photo cred: unitedyogis.com (not sound judgement, from a marketing perspective)

I have an appreciation for the bendiness that yoga affords and have done it a few times before, but usually leave either discouraged that I couldn’t wrap my legs twice around my own waist, or with a dislocated shoulder from trying too hard or engaging the wrong chi. Curiosity about what value the heat would add and maybe a little guilt about my slothfulness propelled me to the studio.

Here is what I learned:

  1. There is no such thing as “warm” yoga. The class just before it was “hot” and leaving the door open for five minutes does not cool a place down.
  2. The positions you get into (or attempt to get into) are not attractive, so lights should always be kept low. Or off.
  3. Classmates should carefully select their meals for the day, since they will be sticking their posteriors in my face and those odd positions may make you toot. (Which I would appreciate you pardoning yourself for, since it knocked me right out of what had been a stellar downward dog)
  4. Yoga IS hot. Holding the weight of your body on the knuckle of your thumb while reaching your toes for the ceiling and deep breathing will heat you up fast, but yogis want to up the room temp up to volcanic levels and this confuses me.
  5. Instructors should alter their vocabulary for the anatomic vernacularly immature. I am uncomfortable being told to locate my “pelvic floor” in public, and I don’t understand how to make it feel like a sling. Also, words like womb and spinal make me shudder.
  6. You shouldn’t wear cotton yoga pants, since sweating is inevitable and I witnessed many a soggy bottom. Wick away, next time.
  7. It isn’t ok to giggle when the instructor reads the latest Chopra meditation tidbit because when she says “Peace is our gift to each other” you think she said peas and your 3 year old attention span immediately pictures sending the Jolly Green Giant as our ambassador to the next U.S. Peas Summit, and what a stir that would cause because he wears an off-the-shoulder dress made from leaves, which may not be the best representation for…. (and so on). Yoga is serious! It is not funny.

    Photo cred: anotherkcblog.wordpress.com

  8. Always buy or rent the special towel thing that covers your yoga mat, because you will sweat out every bodily fluid from areas you didn’t know had pores, which will make that mat slick as a cow pie on a flat rock (as we say here in the South) and send you flying into the wall, or into your gassy neighbor. Neither is a good thing.

On the whole, I left the studio feeling taller and happy to have taken on some healthy activity after my hiatus. It was a bit like a spa treatment with the heat and steam and stretching, mixed with a bit of HELL with the heat and steam and stretching, but I would do it again. That is, until it loses its trendiness and goes the way of poor Jazzercise.

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