In the Hothouse

For many years, folks who know me well sometimes refer to me as the reptile. While I have not encouraged this nickname, I have come to understand that it is not wholly inappropriate. I don't tend to sweat very much. I tolerate very warm temperatures without great effort. While others are swimming in body soaking perspiration, my body tends to dampen only slightly even during intense physical activity which has prompted my friends – out of jealousy I am quite certain – to liken me to a lower strata of animal life. Which is why I was curious how I might respond to a taste of Bikram Yoga. Bikram is that version of yoga that requires you to spend 90 minutes in a room heated to 105 degrees and 40 to 50% humidity while you twist and turn and bend your body in ways that make you feel like a first cousin to a pretzel. Its benefits are legend ranging anywhere from stress reduction and enhanced flexibility to a sense of well being and injury repair. This is, of course, if you can steer clear of blacking out, crumpling over from dehydration, or succumbing to fits of nausea. I'm just sayin'.

I confess to being a bit wary of this experience. Lily has done it for a long time and, while she returns from class looking like she's been for a marathon swim, she swears she feels like a million bucks afterward. Since I have all the flexibility of a telephone pole, I concluded my time had come to turn over a new leaf and get my body to do things not previously witnessed by humankind.

We arrived at the bikram yoga studio and Lily, perhaps sensing my less than robust confidence at what would follow, generously found me a spot for my mat at the rear of the room where I could do my contortions in relative anonymity. And, as a bonus, there was a slight leak at the rear door that permitted the merest suggestion of cooler air to extend to my ankles. The room filled with persons that I immediately concluded were seasoned veterans of this discipline. I announced for all to hear that my goals were limited: don't die, and try beyond all measure not to leave the room, no matter how close to fainting you might be, no matter how nauseous. That latter issue is sort of an unwritten rule.

Our instructor was Amy Lane, a petite and energetic young lady who does several of these classes daily: a pro's pro. Amy Lane speaks at a pace that would shame an auctioneer. She belts out direction and helpful guidance at an alarming clip which, at first, seems so at odds with the uber-tropical atmosphere. But, Amy Lane is monitoring everyone with an eagle eye and a finely balanced sense of humor. Sadly, for me, I am so focused on just breathing and trying to bend my body in oh so unfamiliar ways, that I find myself watching other classmates to see what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I'm just trying to keep up here.

As my body swoops and stretches, bends and creaks, I find that I only feel like blacking out every now and then. My lightheadedness comes and goes. Man, it's hot. The trick is to stay under control keeping your breathing even and slow and not give in to open-mouthed gulps of air which, let me tell you, can be very tempting. Amy Lane says it's far better to suppress this urge for open-mouthed breathing lest your body lunge into a panicked fight or flight mode. Comforting. And, I find that whatever reptilian habits I may have inadvertently developed over the years are briskly out the window. Gone. I am shvitzing as I never have in my life. Even my ankles are sweating. When I reach down to grab them in one pose, they simply slide off my already liquified hands. Sweat is flying off me. My shirt, once a light gray when I entered this place, is now almost black and drenched. I reach for my water bottles and gulp what I can without losing the rhythm of the program.

When the clock strikes twelve – the moment when the 90 minute session is reportedly over – I suppress my almost overwhelming drive to urgently advise Amy Lane that she can stop now. But, I swallow that urge and melt into shavasana or corpse pose where you can lie still on the floor giving full surrender to your exhaustion. Amy Lane passes out chilled washcloths which, when resting on one's forehead and eyes, provide a sort of outsized pleasure that, in that moment, is pretty much what you want in life above all else.

I have survived! I am not dead; I did not black out. I am not nauseous. True, I am wondering what the quickest route to the North Pole might be, but I am more than relieved; I am energized by my modest success.

I will return! Isn't that what reptiles do?