Bikram

I've propelled myself out of a cozy and good smelling bed for 110 degree torture.  Every day I decide to go to Bikram class I think I really am a masochist. 

I haven't Bikram'd in a while, so I tried to temper myself back into the tropical posing arena by attending my buddy Craig's Hot Yoga class at the gym.  Craig is an amazing teacher.  He knew I had injured my ankle pretty badly so he spent the class offering up variations and checking in on me, without distracting the class.  But, this class had the unfortunate luck of having a grunter in attendence.  Oh man, it was a Seinfeld-ien kind a class.

Now that I had the grunter I feel like lightning will strick twice.  My first Birkam class I was exposed to a Jolly Santa Clause-sized man in a white speedo.  Equiped with a beard and hairy chest, he didn't work out.  He just laid on his mat watching us.  Uber-creepy.  It was so incredibly hard to concentrate when Gruntee was making downward dog love to the friggen floor.  I had to leave early because I just couldn't hold poses.  It would be so much harder in Bikram, at least during Hot Yoga at the gym, you don't feel like a friggen zen hostage.  I feel if I left Bikram early, I'd become a yoga outcast.  Shunned by others, I would wander the streets of Seattle, teal yoga mat on my back, knocking at doors trying to convince someone to let me practice.  "Please ma'am, I'm just a lowly yoga student....."

Birkam, gah! I can't believe i pay for this torture.  But I only say the prior to class.  Afterwards when I smell like a jock strap and look like a sweaty wrinkly red Umpa-Lumpa, I'll be feeling pretty damn proud of myself.