Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Sweaty strangers

Yesterday, my neighbor Julie and I went to our first hot yoga class. I figured I would either love it because I really enjoy yoga or hate it because I don't like feeling gross. It turned out to be a mix of the two. First of all, the room stank like urine. Chris and I have high class taste in cinema and one of our favorite movies scenes is the dinner scene in Talladega Nights (you know, the one with the 8 lbs 6 ounce Baby Jesus), where Will Farrell's son boasts that he peed his pants and wore his dirty pee pants all day. That's what this room smelled like - dirty pee pants.

But, the smell did not compare with the worst part of hot yoga - you have to do it with other people. Strange people with varying levels of hygiene and concepts of personal space. The man whose mat was in front of me was a solid nine feet tall, clad in only bike shorts, and had a faded tattoo of Donald Duck on his chest. Because of his gargantuan size, he couldn't be confined to the limits of his own mat so he often seemed to hover over mine. You guys, he SWEAT ON MY MAT. Gah! Beads of stranger sweat on my yoga mat. It was grosser than gross.

Anyway, despite the extreme ick factor it seemed like a pretty good work out. The heat wasn't too bad-- not unlike being nine months pregnant in August. I think I just need to find a less popular session or take up a nice roomy corner next time. We have four classes left on our Groupon deal, so that's four more chances to get totally skeeved out and risk some sort of infectious rash, or four more good workouts. I'm going to think positive and focus on the later.

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