Life Lesson #15: Taking in one more part of this hot world, chewing it up and sweating it back out.

I can often gauge how late I’m going to be for work based on what’s happening when I walk out of my apartment building.

If the guy who owns the laundromat next door is just loading up his van with the morning’s deliveries, I’m definitely beating my boss to work by a solid half-hour.

If the plumbers and handymen are drinking coffee and discussing the day’s jobs outside of Culligan’s, their trucks double-parked and engines running, I’m probably going to be twenty minutes early.

If a whole bunch of kids are loitering outside the deli two blocks down, then I should be a good ten minutes ahead of schedule. But if it’s just a few of those kids, destined for a life of minimum wage jobs because they’ve decided that hanging out on First Avenue is sooo much cooler than getting their punk-asses to class, then I could be anywhere up to twenty minutes late.

And when I pass the ladies of leisure wearing spandex while pushing their baby carriages into Starbucks, I should probably get my lazy self a cab.

This morning, I beat all the usual suspects as I dragged my still sleeping body into the barely waking world at five minutes past six. Because, after a holiday weekend that included what I can only estimate to be a dozen or so magnums of wine, several Cadbury eggs and a kilo of ricotta pie, I knew I had to jump start a week of what I plan to be some serious gym workouts and maximum salad intake.

And what better way for me to rid the self of nauseating amounts of alcohol, chocolate and cheese than by twisting it into obscene poses while sweating for an hour and a half in a room set to over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit at 6:20 in the morning?

Apparently, I can’t come up with a better alternative either.

My new obsession with hot yoga started a few weeks ago. A coworker’s recurring praise of the benefits and my need to drop a few of those winter pounds before tank top season is in full swing were enough to persuade me.

Let me tell you: embracing the ‘hot’ in hot yoga takes some serious mind over matter work. Unless you’ve actually been insane enough to participate in this bizarre form of self torture, you have no clue how freakin’ blazing 105 degrees really is. I feel beads of perspiration form on my arms only seconds after entering the room. The first drop of sweat falls from my forehead to the floor before I even get my mat rolled out below me. The only reason I don’t feel like a total out-of-shape mess is that whoever is already there, usually sprawled out on the floor waiting for class to begin, has already formed their own wading pool, regardless of how toned they are or how long they’ve been doing this.

My first class included a three minute dizzy spell in which I couldn’t see my hands stretched out in front of me as I stuck my ass high in the air for the revered ‘downward dog’ pose. By class two, I think I suffered a slight case of dehydration.

Because I’m a complete lunatic and glutton for self punishment, this was enough to make me hooked. Extreme heat – I can take you on any day.

I was completely sold by class three when I was able to glide effortlessly into a split, something I haven’t been able to do without some serious stretch work since I used to dance.

This is another part of the whole hot yoga thing that has sucked me in. The practice itself, when done over time, is believed to increase muscle flexibility and limberness. It’s a nice balance to a normal gym work out that often shortens the muscle fibers and can make the body way too tight. I’ve always been a fan of being able to touch my toes, as I’m sure a few people in my life have been as well.

And so, much like every other time I find a new interest, I made the decision to go balls to the wall. I’ve done this with a few other self-proclaimed hobbies. Kickboxing. Makeup art lessons. Tanning. Spinning classes. Volunteering. Note that most of these are dropped in a few months; maybe to be picked up again after a small (i.e. many more months) retreat.

Of course, hot yoga will be different. I plan on doing this, like, forever.

So last week, I bought an unlimited package at a studio close to my apartment. I went almost every day. Even on Wednesday, when I was dead tired from getting home at about 3 am from a night of unnecessary barhopping. I even hit the treadmill a few times to give my body a double whammy of pain. By Friday, I was feeling as if I was on the track to physical Zen.

By Sunday evening, I was having a bit of a panic attack. After my binge with the family over the weekend, which included little physical activity beyond a brief stint at the driving range with my dad for no more than an hour, I was having a bit of difficulty breathing with my jeans on. Putting sweatpants on didn’t make shoving a bunny-shaped sugar cookie into my mouth any easier. And so I quickly looked up the schedule online and decided I would get into the next available class, no matter how early it was.

Which led me to stumble out the front door at this morning’s obscene hour.

I was slightly amused at the thought that this is the time I usually stumble into my building on the weekends. Although, I’m usually teetering on heels and trying to cover my inappropriately exposed chest so as to not scare the early Saturday risers.

Clearly, not many people like getting up earlier than what nature intends. There were only three other women in the class. One was passed out on her mat, snoring. The instructor had to cough loudly, a few times, to wake her up.

“I’m so delighted you have all taken the time to start this week’s journey with me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip.

Because while I have no problem embracing the hot and take on the challenge of getting my leg to wrap around my head with delight, the whole ‘yogi’ mentality is a test I just don’t think I’ll ever be ready for.

I had an instructor tell me to take the sounds of the sirens screeching outside, hug them in, and throw them back out into the world as a hum. Seriously? I had to laugh out loud at that one.

A woman next to me farted while adjusting herself into a lunge last week. I looked around for someone to share the humor in the situation with, but all I got was averted eyes. I was heartbroken.

“Let’s start today with an intention. Whatever it may be for. For you, for me, for the whole wide world. Each of us. Let’s start today with a beautiful intention.”

Um, okay.

Life Lesson #15: There is only so much I can expect to get out of something. And while I may not be able to get the full experience the woman chanting next to me is (or, what I’m guessing, she’s pretending to get while she’s smirking on the inside, just like me) that doesn’t make it any less fulfilling.

I won’t ever be able to say ohm with a man wearing short shorts without holding back laughter. And I’m pretty confident I can’t spend an entire class laying in child’s pose if that’s what my beautiful body is telling me it needs. But hey, I’ll save that for the next hobby I decide to embrace.