Purple Yoga mat Virginia

Be in the moment. Be in the moment. Beinthemoment.

A single droplet of sweat carved a lazy trail from the top of my shoulder to the crook of my elbow, meandering across spring freckles and around fine hairs until it dropped unexpectedly, as though it felt close enough to the ground to just let go, and landed with a splat onto my purple yoga mat.

Miscalculated that one, didn’t you? I inwardly laughed at my sweat drop’s misfortune.

But soon another took its place, distracting me from The Moment as it emerged from my hairline and ran down my temple, more decisive than the last in its mission of suicide, and dropped from my jaw.

They felt like ants.

Ants creep me out. I’m pretty sure ants will be the next creature to take over the earth.

Or cats.

My mat was dotted with suicidal sweat drops.

How does one sanitize yoga mats? I wondered. I’m so glad I didn’t rent a mat. Then all I’d be able to think about is how many other people sweat on this mat before me. Can you catch anything from infected yoga mats? Tuberculosis? Meningitis? Crabs? That guy could be leaving crabs on his mat RIGHT NOW.

I glanced across the room at one of my über fit classmates demonstrating a perfect downward dog. Arms outstretched, back flexed, tailbone pointing skyward and shorts that crawled up into his crotch, hoping to escape the heat. Good luck with THAT, shorts.

BE IN THE MOMENT!

My sweat-slick palms slid slowly towards the head of my mat as I struggled to make my heels touch the floor and keep my butt in the air, envisioning my classmates’ internal struggles to keep from laughing when I inevitably face planted into a salty puddle of my own creation.

Hot yoga, it turns out, isn’t my thing.

My friend Alice had been trying to get me to go for months, as have many others, in a near futile attempt to convince me that it wasn’t “that” hot and the temperature is good for your muscles and flexibility. I eventually caved, refusing to be “that person” who insists I don’t like something before I’ve even tried it.

I have little respect for that person.

Prior to our class, the instructor tried to explain, “It’s not the same as hot heat, ” and you know what? Someone told me the same thing about Arizona once, but 110-degrees Fahrenheit is still 110-degrees Fahrenheit — hot enough to melt a camera in your car. I would know. Dry heat is ALL LIES. And while I literally sweat it out in that hot box of a room, I tried not to think about my innards boiling like the guts of my camera or the sweat ants skiing from my waistband up my spine. But the truth is that I just can’t take the heat.

It’s not just uncomfortable — it makes me physically ill.

Also.

I’m never going to be one of those super pumped endorphineaholics who goes crazy for exercise. I’m just not. But there’s something about the morning after the morning after feeling of strength that keeps me searching for ways to have fun getting fit. (The first morning after is reserved for intense physical pain, by the way.) I have yet to find the “fun” part, but the results are worth the pain. Now that my body is stronger than it’s ever been, this feeling is something I don’t intend to lose.

Hot yoga, unfortunately, is just one of the many things at which I fail and have zero desire to improve.