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“Man, it really is hot,” I said under my breath, just loud enough for my friend to hear.
“Kade, this is the waiting room,” she answered. “Wait until we’re actually inside the studio.”
I had just begun my hot yoga journey, and already knew I was doomed. It didn’t matter I’d grown up on the muggy soccer fields of New England, or that I had become obsessed with saunas later in my 20s. The hot yoga sweat box had different plans for me, and none of them added up to a good time.
I like the theory of hot yoga, I really do. Getting a little deeper into poses while burning more calories? Sign me up. Improved cardiovascular health? Umm, yes please. The actual practice though? Somehow it feels like maybe it’s not for me. For one, I’m a sweater with a capital S. Many yogis enjoy hitting their poses through rounds of cleansing perspiration, but most don’t shed so much water that they face plant out of downward facing dog, their hands slipping so hard on a sweat puddle that they split apart like the San Andreas fault line. Call me unique, but that’s how I spent the 10th minute of my first class.
Dazed, confused, and unsure if the wetness on my forehead was sweat, blood, or upward facing tears, I tried to collect myself and realized I was suffocating in near darkness. If I did get knocked out, would anybody have even noticed that my reverse shavasana was actually a Grade 2 concussion?
Steadying myself, I tried desperately to reconnect with breath, but in the third circle of athletic hell, “try” was about as far as I made it. Sucking in fire and mouth-breathing steam, I couldn’t tell if it was the near concussion or the continued rainstorm off my hairline that was blurring my vision. Somewhere in the void, I was completely and utterly lost.
The worst part? Everyone around me seemed to be having a genuinely divine experience. Even through the darkness, I made out glistening bodies attached to smiling faces, all tuned to a channel I was nowhere near finding.
By the final “namaste”, I had long since melted into a puddle of my own creation. Mustering my last ounces of energy, I escaped into the now-frigid waiting room. My friend met me there, beaming and goddess-like.
“Wow, just wow,” she said. “That was transformative.”
Exhausted and thankful for my survival, I tempered my honesty to preserve our good standing. “You know, I’m not sure hot yoga is my thing.”
“It’s not for everyone, but that’s kind of the beauty,” she explained, perfectly adjusting her mat under her perfectly glowing triceps. “Wait, are you bleeding?”
