Hot Mess

I’ve always tried to ignore certain friendly notions, like, “Let’s go winter camping” and “You should wax your chest,” and until I tried it, I’d have added, “Hot yoga is something you must do!” to that set of suggestions. But after last week’s experience, I’m rethinking everything. Hot yoga, or “Bikram” yoga, is different than your standard yoga. It’s essentially volunteering to exercise inside a large terrarium, akin to spending ninety minutes doing slow-motion jumping jacks in Nana’s attic apartment in early August, except Nana’s wearing next to nothing and sweat’s flying off her like loose change off a Tilt-a-Whirl rider. I guess we’ve run out of fitness ideas because exercising like you’re doing yard work in the Gobi Desert seems crazy.

My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.

I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.

I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.

Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.

It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”

Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.

I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.

Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.

“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.

It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.

Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.

My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.

My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.