Fro-Yo{ga}

Several years ago, I had my first brush with Bikram Hot Yoga. I was visiting my best friend, Lindsey, in Alabama and gamely agreed to attend a session at her local studio. Lindsey is known for her fanatical attitude towards fitness {juicing, CrossFit-like small group sessions, long distance running, etc} and I knew that there was a chance that this may result in pain or heart palpitations on my part. However, I'm slightly maniacal when it comes to exercise myself, and felt I was up for the challenge. I grabbed her extra mat, a specialized yoga towel, and a {too small} bottle of water and bravely saddled up for an early Saturday morning workout.

I {foolishly} thought that Hot Yoga would be a comfortable way to spend a chilly February morning. Most of the images I had of yoga contained a lot of Birkenstocks, granola, and meditation. I figured I was more than prepared, calculating my uber-athleticism to be a heavy pro in this situation. In fact, I secretly thought this wasn't going to be much of a workout, but more of a nap. With a small amount of cockiness, I filled out a waiver, half-heartedly listened to the spiel from the instructor, and rolled my eyes at the plethora of Buddhas and incense holders featured throughout the studio. Bunch of hippies, I snorted, and snapped the waistband of my Lululemon {full-length... this will matter in a minute} Wunder Unders. Bring it, Bikram!

An excruciating ninety minutes later {Lindsey neglected to impart this tiny bit of information until midway through Dante's Inferno}, I emerged five to ten pounds lighter with a keen longing to plunge my simmering skin into a melting snowdrift outside the studio doors. The hour and a half that had preceded this haze of endorphins and heat stroke was a blurry montage of images, sounds, and an internal mental commentary that doubled as a thermometer.

Before my initiation into the world of yoga, I envisioned toned, tanned hard bodies of both sexes demonstrating amazing flexibility and drinking delicious juice concoctions while they basked in a state of post-yoga bliss. Instead, I spent the standing series watching King Kong's third cousin stumble through Triangle and Tree in a dangerously small piece of blue spandex. Between his back hair and the copious amount of sweat rolling down his shoulders, I was pretty sure that my prior knowledge on yogis came from E! News and other Hollywood lies. I furtively tried to catch Lindsey's eyes each time the instructor mentioned the amount of time left or passed; however, she conveniently became absorbed by her mat/towel or the mirrors that were steaming over in this wheatgrass version of Hell. And those full-length yoga pants soon felt like a 10 pound wet blanket, creating a miserable sensation of humidity from heel to hip. It was an experience I wouldn't soon forget - and that scarred me for quite some time when it came to yoga {hot or otherwise}.

Fast forward to 2013 and my first winter north of the Mason-Dixon. Surrounded by snow drifts and frigid winds, I was desperate to be warm. No matter how high the thermostat was cranked or how many layers I sported while walking Jolene, I could never shake that icy feeling in my core {not to mention my fingers and toes}. When I inadvertently passed the Bikram studio on the way to somewhere else, it hit me like a white hot bolt of lightning - my frozen fingers and toes would undoubtedly thaw out if I could just push aside my strong aversion to all things yoga. Two days later, I was locked into a new member month unlimited opportunity {to ensure that I HAD to go more than once}.

I {admittedly} wised up on the wardrobe and sported a pair of yoga shorts with a tank. With a small fish tank's volume of water and a brightly colored beach towel/yoga mat combo - I was ready to better the Bikram beast. Once again, there were no six-packed sex symbols in sight; however, there was the welcome and immediate thawing of my body that resulted in my shoulders falling away from my ears for the first time since late October! With each pose, my attitude became a little more flexible {along with my hamstrings!}. I purposefully put the focus on me and started setting up mini-mental competitions for how far I could push myself. By the end of the 90 minutes, I'd sweat out my preconceived notions {and last night's two glasses of wine} and felt warmer than I had in weeks.

Now, I'm a {semi} regular in the studio and even garnered a compliment from my favorite instructor about how much he enjoyed watching my practice improve. I still occasionally get a little irritated at the green-eating hippies who take the experience to the max, but I'm getting over it. Maybe it's my new Zen attitude or maybe it's the warm feeling I get from head to to after a sweat sesh. Regardless, I have a new frigid weather fitness passion - I call it "Fro-Yo{ga}.

XO,