That one time I did hot yoga

I have a tendency to do things in a bit of an extreme manner.

Like, when I decided to start doing yoga, I signed up for five sessions of bikram yoga.Now, Google defines bikram yoga as ‘ a type of hath a yoga characterized by a set series of postures and breathing exercises, performed in a very hot room.’

But Google is full of bull shit.
What it doesn’t say is that, ‘very hot’ means 105°, with 40% humidity.
And that, ‘a set series of postures’ takes 90 minutes.
And that these ‘breathing exercises’ will be almost impossible because, oh yeah, you’re doing yoga inside of a jungle monster’s arm pit.
It also doesn’t tell you that you have never, in you time on earth, sweated from every inch of your body like this.
Every. Inch.
And it doesn’t include that it takes and HOUR AND A HALF.
Oh yeah, and Google fails to mention that during this hour and a half you will most certainly indadvertedly find yourself in the front row of the class, next to that girl who is the reason that yoga pants are so widely regarded among the male population as a fantastic invention.
And she will always just war a sports bra as a top.
And she will always do the most advanced version of every pose.
And her long, shiny hair will never be pulled back.
And she will always sweat glisten like a fucking Victoria’s Secret model.
Google doesn’t tell you that you will probably struggle to do even the simplest of poses.
In a room where half the walls are glass, the other mirrors.
Giant mirrors, so that allow you to look yourself in the eyes as your body actively defies the simplest orders.
They leave out the part where the instructor looks at you with eyes that say, ‘bitch, we both know you can’t handle this,’ every time he corrects you.
Which is a lot.

Screw bikram yoga.

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