My sweat is sweating. It’s true; just look at my arm: the large beads of sweat have tiny beads of sweat on them. And if you had a microscope with you, you would see that even the tiny beads are sweating. I am standing on a yoga mat in a room heated to 105+ degrees. There are over forty of us following the teacher’s instructions for poses and movement dictated by military standards. Every time it is the same 26 postures, paying homage to the gods of strength and flexibility. No creativity. No music. I crave this for some crazy reason. Ever since I got up this morning I looked forward to this ninety minutes of hard work—and sweat.
The young woman in front of me can bend herself back so her body makes an inverted L. How does she do that? I can barely tip back at a 15 degree angle. The man beside me has the most amazing tattoos I have ever seen. He is bending over, pulling his upper body down so low that his forehead touches his ankles. Was he born that way? I’m just glad I don’t fall over and make a fool of myself when I try to touch my toes.
The teacher just grimaced at me. I’m in trouble. We’re not supposed to be looking at anybody but our own reflections in the mirror in the front of the room. I’m thinking that’s a good thing, since I don’t want anybody to notice I’m looking even more pear-shaped today. I had to have that third slice of deep dish pizza last night. I’m trying to cover it up by wearing black. Who am I kidding?
Speaking of food, I’m thinking about the cold beer—maybe two—I want for dinner tonight to wash down with barbeque chicken, yummy roasted potatoes, olive-oil roasted green beans and apply pie with one—maybe two—of the ice cream bars stashed in the back of the freezer. If you make it through an hour and a half of this yoga you can eat anything you want.