It's been months. Yeah, yeah, I get it. Negligent blogger, I know, I know. We already established this way back in May of last year. But in case you haven't noticed, there's a recession going on and that affects EVERYONE. Stop crying for those sad bankers and ex-Lehmanites, its we middle class Bloggers who get hit the worst. Yes, the recession has hit the AstoriaGirls hard. First Gweeny Deets got handed the pinkslip, and shipped off to pursue a better life in a state beginning not with M, but W. Even sadder, we lost our beloved Jax last month to what we thought was an accidental overdose. We suspected a cocktail of sleeping pills and painkillers but the autopsy said otherwise. Apparently crack is back, folks. Warn the kiddies. But I'm checking my politics at the door, man. While we AstoriaGirls support all that is American, you know, voting and campaigning and blaspheming and all, that is not what this blog is about. I have far more pressing things to discuss.
There are several crucial things to consider before doing Bikram Yoga. The first is what to wear. Obviously sweatpants or spandex are a terrible idea. Be sure to avoid anything that may impede the sweat beading from your loins. Men seem to prefer the ease of a breezy pair of basketball shorts, but we ladies have it a little tougher. One may assume that the less you wear, the better it is for everyone involved, but that isn't always the case.
I once had the misfortune of pairing a preppy white sportsbra with a pair of cotton gym shorts. I was proud of myself for forgoing the tanktop, and I bounced my pontail into class with the pep of a british girl band. By the 20 minute mark, I was completely drenched in sweat, hair slicked back like a newly-birthed sea otter. My spanking white outfit, now translucent, left nothing to the imagination. It was a scenario far worse than that time I wore a plus sized girl's suit to my adult swimming lessons. Apparently sports bras and girls swimsuits have something in common: they do not have linings. But what can you do? I couldn't leave the class. That would only attract more attention, and there was no playing dumb. Try pretending your shiny, happy areola's aren't out there on display. Not with those floor to ceiling dance mirrors reflecting them 80 different ways. So there I was. The Ninety-Minute Nipple Show. The girls on parade. It's times like these when you just gotta' move on with your life. Lesson Learned. Next time wear black.
Then there was the lady who wore a pair of torn, leopard-print tights beneath a kelly-green thong. Man. Her downward dog was a thing to behold. She may have gotten the black sports bra right, but the rest of us were left calculating the number of days 'til her next bikini wax.
Which brings me to the second challenge of Bikram: the vomit factor. Most instructors suggest you don't eat a full two hours before class, and this really should be taken to heart. Just sitting in 110 degree heat is enough to make one toss their cookies, let alone twisting in positions unnatural to the human form. Everyone has a position that's worse than all the rest. You know, the one everyone else in the class tackles with the greatest of ease, but leaves you floundering like a dying mackeral on the mat. For me, its "camel pose." How I loathe camel pose. The diagram below demonstrates the horror fairly accurately. (Please note, in particular, Area #2. Apparently my fear of yoga-induced flatulence is not entirely unfounded.)
When all is said and done, after you've whispered that last Savasanah, closed your eyes, let go of all your earthly burdens, nothing compares to the feeling of the cool night air on your damp skin. Its equivalent to the high you get after running six miles or so. Some say the benefits of this bizarre form of torture far outweigh its discomfort. Maybe I believe it. Maybe we're all just masochists. Maybe in order to love life for what it is, we have to suffer for a few hours a day. If it makes the kiss of a cool breeze feel that delicious, I say bring it.
Willa K is back, b!tches.
