Upon entering the hot room, a wave of nausea and B.O rolls gently around, hovering. Those who have arrived early are creating an aura of peace and mindfulness around themselves; you walk around. There is no speaking in the hot room, only groans and heavy breathing. The mats lay in an organized fashion to ensure you’re touching your neighbor the entire class. The yogi vibe is accepting though, touching is always welcomed.
The instructor arrives in the overcrowded room to welcome all their sweaty yogis. Walking towards the front, they encouraged everyone to come into to a tabletop position. You adjust, ensuring your lower half is inches away from your backyard neighbor. Cat-Cow is first. With a slow arch of the back the room fills with hot air and audible exhales. The instructor's voice guides the class, encouraging you to focus on their breathing. After all, it is the center of your practice.
As the class continues, the mirrors fog and you struggle to keep your breathing consistent. The side board heating system hisses at you, demanding more energy. The humidifier exhausts moisture into the air, causing the sweat to glide down your every pore onto the floor. You reach up to give your sun salutation and sweat drips into your ears, causing your hearing to go. With blurry vision and cloudy hearing you fold over and hang with exhaustion.
You’re struggling. With no towel to absorb the sweat, your feet and hands slip from under. Looking around, it seems as if everyone is an Olympian. Your sweat, pooled around your struggling hands, mock you for even trying. With one last attempt, your body slides down to the floor and out of the posture. With disappointment and defeat, you lay pancake-style until the next sequence of postures.
Shaking the embarrassment off, you stand to come into mountain pose. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something. Breaking his focus, a fellow yogi is offering his towel. He's kind of cute. You think this could maybe be your new sweaty yoga man. Your hands touch, and with an awkward “thanks” you grab the towel, ruining any chance of becoming a hot yoga Instagram model with him.
Finally, after the hardest hour of your life, the instructor tells you to lay down. After a full five minutes of pure stillness and silent meditation, you are gently brought back to reality. You move your fingers, then your toes, then come onto your side into fetal position. You lay there in a puddle of sweat, thinking about the torture you just spent $30 to endure. Philosophical questions start to fill your mind: Am I satisfied with my life? Will anyone love me? Will the McDonald's ice cream machine ever work?
With a flick of the lights, it’s over. You look in the mirror and see a new person. This person is strong, empowered, and dripping with last nights cocktail. You decide this is it. This is your new jam. Congratulations, you are now a yogi.