Pretzel, Anyone?

So, I understand that Bikram Yoga is not specific to Richmond, but I feel compelled to share my experience since my first encounter with Bikram took place here.

Now, I consider myself to be a fairly fit person. I’m not going to win any speed races or bodybuilding competitions, but I do work out on a regular basis and I would not call myself a stranger to the yoga mat.

My super foster family practices Bikram Yoga regularly. “You must try it,” they said. “You’ll love it,” they exclaimed. “You’ll do great,” they added.

Did I “do great”? No.

Did I “love it”? No again.

Must I have tried it? Well, I’m no expert on life’s necessities, but I probably could have gone an entire lifetime without it.

Does my attitude toward Bikram make me feel like a weenie? Perhaps, but I will say the people with whom I endured those 95 minutes (don’t try and pretend like it was 90 minutes as the schedule said – I can read time) are warriors. The sweatiest, most focused warriors I have ever encountered.

Allow me to recreate the circumstances that led me to my conclusions. Before class I met with the instructor who gave me some pointers. They may sound like stern rules to the inexperienced, but she assured me they were just helpful hints:

• Do not leave the room during the entire 90 minutes (ahem, 95 minutes) for any reason. I could feel my tiny bladder tensing up with anxiety.
  
• You may feel dizzy during your first session, so when that happens, sit or lie down on your mat and wait for it to pass. WHEN that happens?
• Don’t wipe the sweat from your face or drink any water for the first 25 minutes of class. The salty beads were already accumulating on my forehead.
  
• No talking. Hahahahaahahahaa! Oh, seriously??

I was getting nervous. This was going to be a challenge.

As we walked from the locker room to class, my friend examined my measly 24 oz. of water and let me know I should have invested in a bigger bottle. I could only pray that I would be passed out in a corner before thirst set in.

Walking inside the yoga room, I was assaulted by heavy, musty, cumbersome heat. It felt like someone had thrown a king-sized blanket recently drawn from a boiling cauldron of peanut butter over my body. It seriously must have been 120 degrees, though the thermostat only read up to 99.

We sat down without a word and class began shortly after. “Ninety minutes,” I coached myself. I can do this for 90 minutes. And I did. Ninety five, actually, in case you missed that detail. I twisted and stretched and bent my back in ways I never thought possible. I balanced and reached and probably lost about five pounds of water weight by the time it was all said and done.

I could possibly improve if I chose to attend class a second time. But as long as I live in America, I just don’t think that’s going to happen.