She reaches forward, breathless and panting with the effort. Slowly the tension builds, excruciating in its ectasy. The heat is intoxicating with reminders of what was to come. The sweat begins to trickle down her back finding its way through the pathways to pleasure. She holds on to the feeling until with an explosion of breath she teeters from side to side and falls flat on her butt hitting the yoga mat with a mighty thump. So graceful, so elegant, so sweaty, so out of shape …
So I went back. Again. To hot yoga – not just hot, mind you, but freaking tropical, holy crap, suck out my lungs hot. Mexico beach at midday with no flip flops, a thong bathing suit and a face cloth to sit on hot. Where’s the cabana boy with my umbrella drink and can’t we turn a fan on in here hot. Did I mention I was a tad warm ?
What I discovered was that my good buddy Tracy had placed our mats directly UNDERNEATH ONE OF THE HEAT SOURCES ! These crazy long white doo-dads that pumps out heat with much fervour and abandon. Jumping Jesus on a stick – what did I ever do to her ? The teaser is the ceiling fans that sit high above the heat source thingies taunting you with their white blades that are still as death. Not to mention the large floor fans whose whir is silenced. Perhaps they are too hot to move. Perhaps they will melt. Perhaps someone needs to test them and see if they are working ?
We tried an earlier class this time. I believe our instructor was Denise. Lovely, tiny, blond, bendy, masochistic, drill sergeant Denise. Who strolls around the room, I might add, during our session with nary a bend or twist in site. Hmmmm – that’s a bit suspicious. I then glance to my right and see our instructor from last week Peno, who has a class after ours. I wonder if yoga is like some kind of eating disorder where you binge on downward dogs and purge through copious amounts of sweat ? Personally, I think Peno has had one too many turns on the hot floor. He is strangely energetic for someone who has another 75 minute class after this one. Hmmmm – also suspicious.
I will admit to being a yoga chatterer which I will work on. I’m sure people all around me will appreciate it. I feel inadequate and pudgy and so inflexible that Gumby would fall over laughing. Pokey is more flexible than I am. Some of the people in this class are intense. Kind of Moonie intense. They are taking the Chaturanga very seriously. An odd pose similar to a burpie where you go from a lovely hanging bend stretch down in to a plank, sweep up in to an upward dog, go back in to downward dog and then start all over again. Sometimes I just stayed in one position waiting for everyone to come back. I knew they would eventually so why over-extend myself ?
When all was said and done and our mats were rolled, I signed Tracy and I up for the 30/30 deal. 30 days of yoga for $30. I have really enjoyed re-connecting with my friend. For some reason I felt compelled to share with one of the staff that we’ve been friends since we were 12. Tracy is, barring one other ( with whom I’ve had a falling out as is our pattern), the oldest friend I have that I keep in contact with. We will have 30 years next year. 30 years ! I believe Jesus needs to jump back on that stick. Not only is the hot yoga an opportunity to connect with my dear friend, it is an opportunity to connect with me. To push myself. To make more positive changes. We are both on a journey, my BFF and I, to changes that will have us reaching forward with breathless anticipation for many years to come.
And not to make it all about me but here is the fabulous cougar cake I made for her 40th birthday where this photo was taken:
Nuthin’ says luvin’ like a whole bunch of pink and black sugar 🙂