When I was a kid, my cousins convinced me, my sister, and their younger brother that going in the dryer was a fantastic plan. Yes- the *clothes* dryer. So in we went, separately at least. And then they turned it on (whee!). Gotta admire their creativity.
I know, probably not our brightest moment. Or as I like to say, “an important life experience that has resulted in the well-adjusted individual standing before you today.” More importantly, though, not only was it hot in the dryer, it was surprisingly humid too. As in, dang, it’s-so-humid-in-here-how-dare-they-call-it-a-dryer level of humid. “Dryer.” What a farce. However, due to the short-lived nature of the experience, as well as the going upside down part, at least the heat was short-lived.
Fast forward about a decade, and my high-school soccer team plays in 106 degree, muggy-beast level heat. This results in an all-day perma-headache that lasts the rest of the day. As much as I loved soccer, hard to say whether it was worth it. Head-roasting pounder only to be replicated another decade later during & after first spinning class (surprised I ever went more than once). And then again, when my friend Hillary asked me to come to the first yoga class she’d ever teach. The fine print: said class took place in a heated (104 degree), humidified room. I should have seen the red flags: they called the class “yoga sculpt.” Proceeded to pass out 3-5lb hand weights at the door. Studio name: “Core Power.” Multi-page legal document to sign, mentioning take at your own risk: check. Recommendation to wear a head band, wrist bands, and bring multiple towels- yes.
As a person who strongly believes that if I wanted to work out, I’d go to the gym, my preference for separation of sweat and yoga was pretty clear. In fact, the only situations in which I want to be in that kind of heat for more than the few seconds it takes to dart from on air-conditioned area to the next include steam rooms, saunas, and hot tubs. And even those are ill-advised hangout spots for more than about 15 minutes at a time.
However, my urge to support my friend and leave my (air-conditioned) comfort zone outweighed those preferences. So I went, equipped with my shortest short-shorts and skimpiest everything, ’cause at some point I figured we all stop caring. And that wasn’t (skimpy) enough to prevent my matt from turning into a virtual Slip’N’Slide. As in, the kind I had in the ’80s, before they came with sprinklers. Until that day, I never fancied myself a particularly sweaty person. Yet for the record, my alleged “Thirsty Towel” was no match for this particular brand of sweat lodge, I mean class.
For the first time in my life, I think my eyelids were sweating. They wouldn’t stop. My whole body turned into one giant faucet. So the biggest challenge was to stay until the 15 minutes of the excruciating 90 minute class when Hillary would take her turn. But clearly a whole room of sweaty people survived. A lot of them went back. Confession: after spending most of the “longest-yoga-class-of-my-life,” I felt pretty awesome. After taking one of the most satisfying showers on Planet Earth, with a side of roasty, pounding headache that is.
So un-shockingly, I never returned to Core Power, or any brand of uber-heated class for that matter. for that matter. Plus, to anwer one of the top FAQ posed to any yoga practitioner, will never, ever take a Bikram class. And not just ’cause they do the same sequence. Every. Single. Time.
To me, some things are better hot. Saunas. Hot chocolate. Soup. Tea. Sriracha. Significant others. Those hot stones they put on your back sometimes for massages. But I’ll take my yoga room-temperature, thanks. Effective forever.
To be fair, there clearly are some people out there who feel the awesome minus the 2-day headache, strong urge to shower, and extreme sweat intolerance that others experience. I’ll continue to admire their bodies’ abilities to handle being roasted while they “flow” through lots of poses, and their mental fortitude to be unperturbed with their own dripping sweat. And channel my yogic tranquility to politely decline the next time a “hot yogi” tries to convince me to join the parade.
Yoga Nerd Nicole 