Diary of a Hot Yoga Session

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Hot yoga. Just the term makes my ass twitch. I love it. I hate it. I dread it. I thrive on it. I have such an odd relationship with it, as I hate nearly every second of it but love how I feel when I’m done. But I guess that’s like a lot of exercise programs. I decided to hash out a typical diary of my thoughts while in class:

8:55 I try to arrive five minutes early (not an easy feat for me) to ease myself into the feeling that I’ve just been sucked into the devil’s anus.

8:57 Granted, this is a very nice yoga studio so the smells aren’t as bad as in a Bikram studio, for instance. But let’s call a spade a spade. It doesn’t smell great. And I’ve already begun to smell my own sizzling flesh like I’m in a tanning bed.

9:00 The yoga instructor has greeted us. Full-on panic has set in, as I’ve lost my chance to leave. Or have I? It’s a fight or flight instinct … every damn time. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I think.

 9:01 Initial meditation. Instructor tells us to leave our problems at the door. Problems? I can’t think of anything other than the fact that I’m already sweating like a stuck pig and we are only in child’s pose.

 9:05 Five minutes in and I already look like Albert Brooks in that scene from Broadcast News (yes, I’m dating myself). I’m pretty sure I smell wine oozing from my pores.

 9:10 I can’t stop looking at the clock and it’s only 9:10. Salute the sun? Salute THIS, bitch!

9:15 I’ve already soaked my beach towel. I also forgot to take my eye makeup off last night and I now am 99% blind. It stings like a sumbitch. I’m trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror lest I start crying.

9:25 Is she touching the thermostat? Turn the air on, you twat! More heat?! What is this? Some sort of sick 50 Shades red room of fucking pain? I will egg your super stealth Prius with NON ORGANIC CAGED HEN EGGS!

9:30 I’ve made it halfway! High-five, hot dude next to me wearing almost no clothing. Nah, you probably don’t want to touch me. I have smells emanating from me that should only come from a Mexican prison.

9:35 Water break. FUCK YEAH! I’m doing a little jig in my mind. If only the water wasn’t 95 degrees to match the hot-as-shit temperature in the room.

9:40 Fuck water. I need a goddamned salt lick. I’ll use my bunny’s when I get home. Fuck the bunny. If I die, she dies.

9:45 15 minutes left!? I don’t think I’m going to make it. I’ve begun to hallucinate. I’m eating a giant sub sandwich and Ryan Gosling is at the other end. Just wait ‘til we meet in the middle! I feel weak. Great Grandma, is that you?

9:48 My underpants are soaking wet. Why am I sweating so much more than everyone else? The girl next to me looks like a fresh, spring morning.

9:52 Oh no – the teacher’s adjusting me … with her lilac-smelling hands! Is she out of her mind? Does she not smell me and see the buckets of sweat? Yoga instructor, forever unclean! I will now die of embarrassment.

9:57 Okay, we are now doing that twisty thing with our legs which means we are almost done. I don’t even care that my sweaty ass leg hit the hot dude next to me. We are almost outta here.

9:59 Savasana, motherfuckers! This is what we’ve all been waiting for … Corpse pose. Hold on, how am I supposed to relax when it’s still hot as fuck in here?

10:00 Namaste, motherfuckers! That wasn’t so bad. I think I’ll check out what time I can come tomorrow.

Marnie headshotMarnie is a freelance writer, lyrical prankster, and mom to two boys – Finn, 6, and Declan, 4. She started out as a Copywriter for FOX’s americanidol.com and has since written for sites like LivingSocial, Red Tricycle, and Wetpaint. Marnie has also been published twice in San Diego Magazine’s “best of” segments. Her writing on parenting has been featured several times on the popular Scary Mommy blog and on Disney’s parenting website, Babble. This busy North County San Diego resident also hosts a mommy blog called LoveButBlog, which takes a rather irreverent look at the trials of motherhood and marriage.

 On top of raising two nutty boys, she wrangles two portly pugs named Olive and Fred. When she’s not writing or wiping noses and buns, she’s working out, indulging in her trashy TV addiction with her equally addicted husband, cracking a bottle of Malbec, or fantasizing about her dream trip to the Amalfi Coast in Italy. Find her socializing the media on Facebook and Twitter.