Hot Yoga

I like to think of myself as fit. I like working out, but I certainly go through phases and am somewhat bipolar when it comes to a regime.

I love the results of exercise...endorphins are legal and oh-so-feel-good-drogas from our heavenly father. That's totally the scientific definition.

However, I also love surfing the internet and will find myself lost in a vortex of nothingness for hours on end. Buzzfeed quizzes are of the devil and (on a completely unrelated note) I know exactly which character I would be on every single NBC or FOX comedy. True story.

These two desires are a daily struggle. I would like to not have a pancake bottom...I would also like to watch my alter ego Liz Lemon win at life and eat hotdogs. She makes me feel normal. Blurgh.

I basically want all the things. But don't especially want to exert effort to get all the things (It sounds like terrible grammar, unless you get the reference).


I'm back on my "we need to get healthy" kick. I took a break after losing 15 lbs earlier this year. Well, with approximately 7 of those lbs finding their way back to my middle and a family beach trip approaching...motivation hath been found.

So, a good friend invited me to her Hot Yoga class.

I've always wanted to try hot yoga and have really been wanting to go to an actual class in general - as opposed to just using my extensive video collection.

Had I known what I was in for...I would have canceled, accepted my fate as an 'out of shape' person, and cut myself a second piece of pie.

First, have you ever left your house in yoga tights? Yeah...me neither. No one should ever have to see me in pants that tight. FYI I definitely layered a few long shirts as to hide any offending areas.

Secondly, it's  by definition HOT. Layering for modesty comes to be seen as an antiquated and downright quaint practice whilst melting away to nothing and posed like a dolphin. I did refrain from stripping down to my undergarments, but I'm not going to say that the thought didn't cross my mind (it was a women's only class after all).

Thirdly, you have to stare at yourself in a mirror. Which is actually a very freeing process. For one, I now realize that some people look really graceful in the practice of yoga. I am not one of those people.  Did I mention that I do a great impression of an ostrich suffering from vertigo?

Fourthly (is that even a word?), you will leave your 45 minute torture session class knowing your limitations, respecting what your body can do, and feeling a huge sense of empowerment.

Fifthly, classes like this create a sisterhood. During the class I never once got the feeling that anyone was watching me or judging me. We were all collectively struggling against gravity and our mindsets (you try telling your mind that it's okay to get in some of those poses). We certainly did not have time to concern ourselves with the woman in too tight pants breathing heavily as she quietly sobbed in child's pose.

Sixthly (yeah, I'm just inventing adverbs now), I was brought to a place of reckoning. It is the place in all worthy endeavors where we think, "This is happening. I'm pretty sure I should turn back now. All signs are telling me 'DO NOT CONTINUE,' but I think the end result is worth it. I really don't want to do this. There is no way out. This is happening."

My places of reckoning have been transformative: my first day teaching, the day Matt and I moved to a city across the country site unseen, the moments I gave birth to my daughters (and the several hours leading up to them), and Hot Yoga.

Giggle if you must, but once you have committed to downward-triangle-hike-your-leg-over-your-neck-and-breath-pose...there is no getting out of that situation gracefully. One must endure.

What are your reckoning moments? 

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