Trying My Hand at Bikram Yoga

Image Credit: skeene

My first mistake was not taking the time beforehand to appreciate water.

I’m more sweat than anything else right now. My arms and legs tremble over my yoga mat as the instructor encourages the class to move into Chaturanga Dandasana (basically a plank, but with more exhaustion behind it). There’s a guy beside me swiftly moving into the pose. I’d seen him a few minutes before class twisting himself into a knot and walking across a mat. He was making us all look bad, but I was happy to see a few other newbies, like myself, faceplant into their mats with defeat.

 I’d probably equate this moment to filling up your car tank a week ago, and seeing it so full that you forget it needs to be constantly maintained. I, apparently, had forgotten to keep the tank maintained for my big yoga trip: one hour and a half of pure, unrelenting, 40-degree torture. I definitely did not drink enough water beforehand. That’s not to say, however, that I didn’t enjoy it. Hell, I plan on going again, just maybe next time with a better-equipped tank. Before the first half-hour interval had ended, I was already on the ground like a bug dying in a puddle of pesticide.

I’d read up on all the details beforehand: drink water like you’re paid to, wear nothing overly loose, bring a towel, and (while it’s not actually mentioned) wear your cutest gym outfit on the possibility of running into yogi dreamboats. Nothing says dedication like a light dash of mascara — and your tightest gym pants to conceal the fact you haven't worked out in months. I even did my hair up in a cute, preppy ponytail… of course now it hangs down my face like a wet 9-tail whip.

Backpedalling a few steps, my roommate and I arrive in a seemingly free-flowing and peaceful yoga centre where the two front desk girls greet us with big white smiles and the most magnificently glowing skin. There’s flower wallpaper, beautiful men and women walking in and out — also smiling and glowing — and a sign written in a ‘dance-y’ sort of calligraphy: Please remove shoes here. If you’re walking around barefoot, the place must be semi-peaceful, right? — wrong. Not if you’re a McDonalds-loving woman who spends more time watching Sex in the City than making wise decisions. I’d entered a place of hell for unfit wrongdoers like me, and I was about to pay for it.

At the start, my roommate and I are pretty cocky about the whole thing. I mean, look at us: were so urban. We’re just a couple of cool cats taking a casual yoga class at 7AM. Maybe we’ll go to some unheard of hipster-café afterwards and Instagram our pleasantly aesthetic drinks. Who knows? We walk barefoot into the room like a couple of proud parrots. Everyone else is already lying down, even five minutes before the instructor has walked in. Some, like pretzel guy who stretches in front of us, close their eyes and move from pose to pose. I, meanwhile, stare up at the ceiling and dance my naked toes until the instructor walks in.

Originally, I think this isn’t so bad. It’s hot — but it’s like being in a spa, and I relax into the warmth. Then a sharp clap from the instructor’s hands quickly sends me reeling into seven layers of lava-sweat hell. Even my gym-bunny roommate looks slightly wild-eyed from the strenuous demand of movement. It begins with deception: a simple Ardha Chandrasana with Pada Hastasana, which is basically just a much needed stretch for your chest where you lift your arms up and bend from side to side without moving your legs. I’m thinking, God this is great. I feel like some health maniac already. The heat really makes you think you’re getting a strong workout into your weekly routine. But when the class hit its first 15-minute mark that’s when time really starts to slow and bite down on my muscles.

I was the first one to collapse onto my mat mid-pose and take a breather. I must’ve been the envy of all my fellow newbie yogi’s because as soon as I was down, so did one, two, three — four others! We were like soldiers of war all plotting some sort of get away as we eyed off the glass door exits like a safe haven. I even began fanaticising about leaving: just picking up my mat, brushing off my hands, and looking at my fellow yogis like “yes, I am the weakest link. Good day.” But I didn’t! And the reason why isn’t because I chose to stick it out, but because suddenly our positions changed to lying-on-the-floor poses.

Thank. God.

My favourite floor pose was probably the one where you hug yourself side-to-side in the fetal position — the screaming, wailing McDonalds child inside of me really thanked me for it. Pavanamuktasana, it’s called. During this, our instructor coddled us newbies with little sentiments like how all of us did very well for our first time and that yoga isn’t about competing.

Afterwards, I almost didn’t feel like leaving. I’d grown fond of myself sticking to the floor and somewhat crying on the inside. My roommate, at the very sound of the first person out the door, fled the room. My gym bunny roommate. Fled.

I, however, despite being the first poor bastard to hit the floor, stare up at the ceiling for a while before slowly hopping up. I am an ethereal goddess of fitness. When I catch up with my roommate out by the lockers, I talk about craving yogurt and wanting to sip on coconut water. If anyone else had heard me, they would’ve rolled their eyes.

But, putting aside the pain and heat, who doesn’t love being the newbie?