Every single woman I know in my life right now is all about yoga. Except the ones that drink excessively. So literally, I know two women who are all about yoga right now. But I digress.
Yoga is the fitness staple I take the least seriously - Clearly, a bunch of pretentious stretching does not a good workout make. As such, a while back I took it upon myself to see what all the yoga hype was about.
Since regular yoga doesn't seem hard enough, I opted for a 90-minute session of Bikram, an "advanced" practice that involves 26 poses and two breathing exercises executed in a 105-degree room. The heat is supposed to loosen you up, allowing your muscles and (gross word alert!) tendons to extend and bend in ways you never thought possible.
The second I shut the studio door behind me, the heat was so stifiling that I struggled to breathe. The odor of high school locker room was intense, yet the spandex-and sports-bra clad women surounding me seemed unfazed.
The instructor, Christian, was lanky and shirtless, and tatted up, and he wore a creepy headset like something you'd see at a super church. His first directive: "Take a deep breath of fresh air." I'm already confused. It smells like ass in here. Of the first few postures, my favorite was Garudasana, or the eagle pose, better described as, "Patrick wobbles on one foot while tangling the shit out of his arms and legs." Technically, it's purpose is to stretch the sex organs and kidneys as Christian would inform us. (Do I really need engorged sex organs right now?) Clearly, its real purpose was to crush my soul.
As class wore on, Christian's voice rang out: "As long as you're suffering, you're doing it right!" My mind wondered to the scene in Kickboxer where Van Damme's legs are yanked into the splits between two trees. By the end my clothes were drenched, every muscle in my body was exhausted, and I wanted to punch Christian in the face.