Merry Christmas to me! New owners renovated the old studio and brought bikram back to my neighborhood. It was even hotter than before, as two giant humidifiers cranked out billowing steam in the cedar paneled room this morning. The space feels great. Lighter. I should love it, but I do miss the old teachers. None of them are here. It feels like starting over.
It’s so hot in here.
It’s hot in here, but the air is cool. I feel the heat on my body, but I’m breathing cool air through my nose.
The air was HOT! But I told myself these little lies about the cool air during my second Bikram yoga class as a means of keeping my heart calm. It was beating inside my ears for most of the class. Even though I practically fainted yesterday, I came back again for another dose of the torture chamber.
I was listening to the dialogue and also not listening to it—trying to drown out the sound and focus on the poses. I was sore and wobbly from the day before, but able to push a bit more than yesterday, which hurt in a good way. The only pose that gave me true pain was the locust pose, which hurt beyond belief. I assumed my elbows had been incorrectly installed and made a note to ask the instructor about this theory after class. I could feel all the places that were sore from yesterday. It felt so much harder, and yet the time went faster, since I knew what to expect.
My “lamp-post leg” shook, and I got so frustrated. I wanted to be better than this! I hate failing. Was I failing? I was there, in the room. I was standing. I made it through a second time and still had to concentrate on my steps as I walked to the changing room. As I rushed out to my car, to the air conditioning, for some reason I decided if I was going to try Bikram yoga, I should go all the way and do seven days in a row.