I’m melting. Melting!

I never thought I’d hear myself sweat.

For a long time I’ve viewed yoga the way men of 40 feel about prostate exams and frightened teens in a horror movie feel about the monster: it’s out there, it’s horrible, and it’s probably coming for you. I tried yoga in Times Square once and quit after 10 minutes of New Age back-torquing misery.

But Amber has been telling me about the benefits of hot, humid bikram yoga for months, and last week I agreed to give it a try. She warned me that everybody hates it at first and said I should just try to stay in the room. That didn’t fill me with confidence, but all the same, I donned my bathing suit and headed for the studio.

The room didn’t smell like sweaty feet so much as it felt like being trapped in a sealed bag of Fritos floating in a jacuzzi. My motivations were doing the poses and not falling over because I didn’t want my face to touch the brown carpet. I did complete the class, and Amber was very encouraging. We were back at it the next night, and that’s when so much sweat ran off my face that I could hear it drip onto my towel.

We’re now getting into a groove: three nights a week we’ll endure nighttime yoga and reward ourselves with a big refreshing meal. I already feel just a little improvement. Cue the yoga montage! Here we are after my first class:

yogaal

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