Hot Yoga

Are you kidding me? Hot, you mean the kind where you sweat profusely on purpose? In a room kept at ninety degrees F or higher? No, I don’t think so. I don’t sweat very much at all and when I do I feel quite uncomfortable because it’s just so icky. That’s why I do things like swimming, hiking in cool to cold weather and bicycling, where I at least can create a breeze or find a shady spot to cool down. Oh, and yoga in my living room because I’m too competitive and sometimes hurt myself in those classes where nobody else is ever competetive because one of the rules is you’re not supposed compete. 😉 And also because the instructors always seem to have names that frequently sound new agey-made-up like, Petal Lotus Flower or Peaceful Lillie Pond. Really?

Yet, I was born with a familial, if not hereditary condition called hyperflexbilty.  I can still, without effort, bite my toenails, speaking of icky. Not that I do that, but I could. So I thought, with time marching forward and people talking arthritis and stiffness and all, I should to try maintain my hyperflexibility with some professional guidance.

Hot Yoga

I went. I hot yoga’d. I sweated an awful damn lot. I survived. I loved it!

Forty eight hours later. I think it damn near killed me. Oh I could do the poses just fine. Except for that one…where you create a quadrupole out of your body and lift it off the floor. That one I’ll do next week. Well, maybe the week after.    

Hot Yoga

Yes. I’m going back. I try to learn something new every year. The ski-skating incident/accident will obviously require more practice and certainly lessons, but not until January. I’m not giving up. But for now…         

Hot Yoga 😳 

nbwilde~wildewrites

9.8.17

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