Bikram Yoga, part 1

I started doing yoga back in February when I joined this great new gym at the Chase called Sante. Love that it's basically a gym named "Cheers!" Also, the decor makes it feel like a well lit nightclub, and I can watch Bill O'Reilly on the individual TV's on all the cardio equipment.

Before I knew what yoga really was, I thought it was one of those trendy, useless exercise fads. Also, I thought it looked stupid. Actually I still think a lot of the poses look pretty dumb, but now that I've experienced yoga's calming influence on my life, I'm a big fan.

I also like saunas. So when I heard that this thing called bikram yoga was yoga in a sauna, I was intrigued. I went for the first time last Friday. Surely it couldn't hurt right?

It was a 90 minute class with strict rules - no talking, no leaving, no looking around, no drinking water until you're told, and absolutely no fun. The first thing I noticed was the smell - the studio had carpet flooring onto which countless people had no doubt poured their toxin-sweat. The second thing I noticed was that what minor happiness I may have derived from the presence of a few attractive, scantily clad women was more than undermined by the number of overweight sixty-year old men wearing only speedos. To call it a visual minefield would be an understatement. It actually reminded me of the feeling I had when I was eight, loved fried rice, but was disgusted by peas, and had to pick out all of the peas in my fried rice before I could eat it.

Finally, I couldn't help but notice a feeling of impending doom. Everyone seemed to be awaiting execution, or at least a minor Guantanamo session. This is when I remembered Ross once telling me "Oh yeah, and you're not supposed to drink the night before bikram."

10 minutes in - feeling pretty good.

20 minutes in - sweating more than I expected, but not terrible so far. A bit concerned it still smelled as bad as it did.

30 minutes in - disaster. Within a matter of seconds, dizziness and nausea hit me like that unnecessary pre-last call shot of tequila at 2:45 am. I sat down immediately, waiting for the unpleasantness to pass. It didn't.

I spent the last sixty minutes of class flat on my back, involuntarily twitching and nauseous in what I imagine heroine withdrawal feels like. I only moved (voluntarily) when the water breaks were called, and it was all I could do to keep myself from crawling out of that room. Also, the two Hardees sausage egg and cheese croissants I had for breakfast seemed to be auditioning for a part in the next season of Prisonbreak. Finally, I couldn't even take deep breaths because the rancid smell of the studio made me want to throw up even more. This was not one of my finer hours...