I am so hot.
I mean that literally. Every day, I stick myself in a 110-degree room for Bikram Yoga class and sweat my head off for an hour and a half. I haven’t been this addicted to something since I started reading all those celebrity tabloid magazines. Besides, it’s offseason, so I have to find something to do with myself for that little two-month void after the lifts close, when the trails still are too snow-covered and muddy for hiking or biking.
Often referred to as “hot yoga,” the Bik-
ram series is conducted in a studio heated to at least 100 degrees. The class is 90 minutes long, with the same sequence of 26 postures every time, like a routine. There are no surprises beyond the shock of manipulating your body into positions you never thought possible.
It’s sort of like working out in a sauna. You sweat so much you wish you could strip off all your clothes, because whatever clothes you are wearing start sticking to you like glue after the first 20 minutes. Sweat drips into your nose during upside-down postures, stings your eyes when you’re upright, and makes you realize what your eyebrows are for.
Our teacher is a German woman named Caroline who wears her long, jet-black hair in a braid thick as ropes and has the kind of flawless beauty that’s hard to swallow, so just looking at her is like biting off more than you can chew. Her husband, Jamie, calls her “the velvet hammer.” She’s tough, but in a way that lets you know it’s for your own benefit. I haven’t experienced teacher worship like this since I fell in love with Mr. Payson, my English teacher in 10th grade, because he had blue eyes and long bangs, like one of the Beatles.
I’ve become a real teacher’s pet, a role that’s very unfamiliar to me to say the least. I spent a good part of my childhood in the principal’s office, in detention, and sitting in the corner of the room with my face against the wall for being “disruptive.”
But in Bikram, I’m front and center and would do just about anything to impress my teacher. Whenever she comments on how well I’m doing a posture, it takes all the restraint in the world not to smile like a 2-year-old and start jumping up and down, shaking my fists over my head in victory and screaming “I am the BEST!” at the top of my lungs. Sometimes she will cruise around during certain postures and give us these awesome massages, and I have to bite my tongue so I don’t raise my hand and go, “Pick me, pick me, pick me!” This is a side of myself I’ve never known.
The coolest part is I’m able to see improvement. Like the first time I saw someone do an eagle pose, I raised my hand and said: “Um, excuse me. My limbs are too short to do that.” But over time I sort of figured it out, gained the flexibility and strength I needed to tie myself into these crazy, cool knots. Aside from the discomfort of having “my throat choked” in order to “stimulate my thyroid gland,” I really love that ruddy glow I get and have often thought about how I could try to duplicate that look from my makeup drawer.
I’m also a big sucker for this Bikram dude, Yogiraj Bikram Choudhury, the school’s founder. He’s a real Indian yoga champion who is still alive and well and living like a king in Los Angeles, where the Bikram world headquarters are located. I guess he still teaches and runs his worldwide empire of yoga, which is all licensed and trademarked in the true spirit of American capitalism.
When I can’t make it to class, I listen to his CD and he will say things like, “Would you rather suffer for 90 minutes or suffer for 90 years?” with an Indian accent. He will laugh and say: “Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Neck hurt? Back hurt? Then you must be happy.” He says yogis don’t eat, don’t sleep and never are sick. He says you could conquer the world if you have a strong spine.
I love the idea of doing this yoga until I’m like 90 years old and would be the coolest grandma ever because I’ll finally be able to do a full cobra and bend my back so far that I can put my head through my knees.
In the meantime, it must be doing something good for me because I know that no matter what, I always have a hot date on Friday night.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
