I must be insane

I can prove it this time. I have an actual example, in case anyone questions my sanity or lack there of.
And here it is:

Bikram.

Yoga.

I know what you are thinking. You are wondering what the blankity does Bikram yoga have to do with the level in which I relate my inner world with the world that surrounds me?

I’ll tell you.

This past week, I and a very good friend, AJ, decided we would delve into the high intensity, reenergizing, calming, and ever so uhm, high temperature world of Bikram yoga.

For those of you not familiar with Bikram, it is a form of yoga in which the yoga practitioners remain in a room that reaches 110 degrees Fahrenheit. While in this dry heat, the practitioners stretch, bend, strain, and generally move like an enormous Gumby doll. And this lasts for 90 minutes.

90 whole friggin’ minutes!

Now sit back and envision this scene. Women and men in a partially lit room all scantily clad in breathable clothing, trying to remember not to breathe in through their mouths and out through their noses, otherwise their lungs may get scorched (Please note the bit of exaggeration here but you get the idea.) For an hour and a half, these individuals move in unison and perform, to the best of their abilities, 26 poses.

Of course this brings forth a vision of grace, dexterity, wonder.

Yeah, let me add a bit of flavor to that soup.

Now picture me, in black cotton shorts and a cute white t-shirt trying to do this. Me, the one who hasn’t worked out in a year due to an accident with a kickboxing bag – I swear it came after me first. Me, the one with posture so poor that the Hunchback of Notre Dame has called me in sympathy. Yes, me, the woman who, due to said kickboxing accident, sometimes has difficulty walking for more than an hour without pain in my right hip and surrounding muscles.

I thought this would be a great way to get back into working out and a fabulous means of stretching my muscles back into shape so I can continue my disagreement with the big black kicking bag.

Now imagine me in the center of a room full of runners, weight lifters, aerobic instructors, and rowing crew folks as I try to keep one foot in the air while balancing on the other foot.

The first time wasn’t so bad. My foot only rolled, oh, 20 times. Never a quitter, I got right back into pose, trying my darnedest to keep my back straight, chin up, arms wide, legs solid like a tree trunk, and focus, focus, focus.
I only considered running for the exit, whipping open the door and screaming “Air! Glorious Air! So scrumptious and luscious!” (Sing to the tune of Food Glorious Food from Oliver!) Gulping every bit of cool, delectable air I could find while dousing my head in the nearest sink and drenching myself. Of course, tepid water would feel like manna at this point. No, no. Never one to give up, I fought my basic instinct for survival and continued to perform the poses. OK, I tried to do them. Well, I tried not to look really bad and cry as I watched those around me easily slip from one pose into another, ever graceful.

The second visit I contemplated running for the door only once. I consider this a vast improvement.

Here’s where the proof of insanity comes in.

I want to go back. Change that – I’m going back. After the first class I enjoyed a high like I experienced only once before. For all you smarties out there, no it did not involve any illegal substances or aerosol cans of whipped cream. When yoga is done correctly, the practitioner can experience a calming, overall high that can last for hours after the class.

What more can I ask for? Stretching, sweating, and a high like no other.

Yeah baby, give me some more.

Now as my husband prepares the padded room for me, I leave you with this: Is standing the middle of a desert while doing your best Gumby impersonation worth the after affects? Only you can answer this question.