Languishing In A Sweat Bath

"Why am I doing this?"

The thought crossed my mind more than a few times as I got into the nth pose during my Hot Yoga session this morning. I feel like a piece of limp dough that's been stretched out and left in the sun too long, and I'm melting into oblivion.

The pose itself I could execute. It was the 38 degree room that felt stifling and made holding the pose all the more difficult. I had to drag my mind away from the thought of the heat. It boiled down to just me, my mat and my sweat.

Sometime later, T-shirt drenched and yoga pants pretty much soaked through, I figure it's almost the end of the class because I hear the click of a knob and the drone of the heater softens. All right, I can do this; I'm almost there.

90 excruciating minutes later, while we're in the relaxed pose (the names of poses elude me), lying down on the mat with eyes closed, I pick up the sound of the instructor opening the windows, letting in a burst of cool air and turning on the air-conditioning.

Finally.

I slow down my breathing some more. Relax. And try to relish having sweat more in 90 minutes than I have in a week.

A warm shower later, clean hair, skin and clothes, and I feel rejuvenated. More than I have in yonks. I look in the mirror and my cheeks are actually flushed.

Then the hairdryer decides it doesn't want to work for me. It's humiliating because there's someone else using the other one just fine. So I wait and walk back into the dressing room when the other person's done. No luck. Even that hairdryer decides I'm beneath it to work.

The receptionist has to get in there and make sure I'm not pulling her leg. Sure enough, one of them is a dud.

I end up signing up for a 20+5 class programme.

When I see Rizal for lunch, he says I sound and look happier. Huh. And then says why didn't I sign up for a 100 classes or more? Huh.

We'll see if I survive the 25 first.