Strike a pose? Sure. Unleash enough sweat to fill a small Dough Boy? Hey, if it reduces that fleshy upper thigh mass, I’m in. Tolerate a melange of putrid stench for 90-minutes? Hmm. That’s where this ever blossoming lotus needs to draw the line.
I recently returned to heated yoga after a three-year hiatus and was quickly reminded of why I’m so Bikram challenged. I have an acute sense of smell, not just strong mind you, but someone known by authorities as a woman who can detect a fire two counties away. Five minutes into the grueling repetition of nearly impossible contortions, I inhaled the unpleasant aroma of a moldy bathroom towel. Unfair! It was all downward dog from there.
Next came the rank cologne of stinky male body odor (I’m not sexist but my keen animal sensor knows Martians emit far fouler scents than Venetians).
But the coup de grace: Freshly applied Wella Balsam conditioner. The signature chemical properties of the popular hair product truly put me over the edge, conjuring memories of my days as a cubby reporter interviewing a 6-foot bulimic in the Chicago North Shore whose hair was shellacked with Wella. I have the inexplicable urge to gag the moment I whiff that stuff, and it is seriously inappropriate to vomit in Bikram because it introduces a smell which could take years to eradicate from the hallowed hot haven of enlightenment.
Yes, I shed three pounds the week I was Bikram-bound, despite my friend Denise’s argument that “you don’t lose weight doing it.” And it can be said, I was a proud human pretzel during the class, too, glad I could still resemble a bendable Barbie, crouching lower than Shawty (and slowly standing back up while my knees creaked) and wrapping one profusely sweating leg around the other leg, evoking the image of the buff master in white trunks on the poster in the front room.
Still, I can’t get past the smells. As I lumbered to my car in the cold of night, feet slippery in flip-flops with soaked hair greased back like a scary landlady clad in a floral moo moo, I too was a smell for sore nostrils, like a Barbie abandoned in the bathtub for a few days, plastic absorbing that bathroom bacteria, reminiscent of that moldy towel I had to tolerate during class. I was never so happy to take a shower.
The next day I returned to a tap dancing class after a two-year hiatus and was instantly reminded of the reason I had left. That awful, clattering noise!
Image: Ron Sombilon Gallery