Hot Flushes

So, there I was, a hot, sweaty mess, tugging at my clothes as they clung to the results of 2 children and a deep enduring love of chocolate. If only the mirrors weren’t so….reflective, and the woman beside me wasn’t so ….lithe…and thin… how is someone so thin? Granted, she is not very happy but then again, she is probably starving.

Hot Yoga ….it’s all the rage within certain circles so I thought, as part of my review process, that I should give a whirl. After all, it’s only a stretch #glib. Granted, the last time I tried to do a yoga class, it didn’t really go to plan. Initially, all was well. I got past the fear of even venturing through the door, I was positively nonchalant as I walked around the bodies already lying supine upon the floor and the eye watering aroma of incense didn’t even deter me. It was the “stillness” that did it. “Stillness” is not something that resonates with me: I admit that I’m fairly childish and my attention span is a tad…limited, but just couldn’t maintain my adult face. Whether it was the overuse of the word “breath” (say this slowly, on an exhale and keep the ”th” going for a few seconds more than is normal) or the dinging of a pair of the world’s smallest pair of cymbals at intervals that did it, but, at around 10 minutes in, something started tickling my inner child and I had to excuse myself or else risk the kind of suppressed laughter that is only usually seen in school assemblies.

Back to #glib …. hot yoga is not as I had imagined. It’s hot yes, but not any hot, I’m talking factor 50SPF but without the actual sun “hot”. Plus, in addition to the heat it was really, really, really humid or was that, perhaps, merely the sweat of the last victims still lingering in the air? There were no cymbals, no incense (would never light under those conditions) and no heavy breathing from the instructor. In fact the instructor had a whale of a time as she didn’t do anything apart from talk , and, believe me, there was a lot of talking. . Additionally there was no chance of excusing myself as with my first (and last) yoga experience; in Bikram yoga, I was cautioned, on entry, that any thoughts of leaving the class before the end was tantamount to murder as was wiping sweat away, and indeed, drinking your own water unless instructed to do so, all, including straightening out ones towel, having being identified (quite rightly) as the tactics of a person trying very hard to style out the fact they are having a little breather. My thoughts? Call me sadistic, but I loved it! It was a lot of hard work, a lot of contortions (most of which I was unable to fathom let alone consider), a hell of a lot of sweating but, happily, no chance to think about my endless to do list; I was waaay to concerned about how one actually does a bipedal stand still on one leg – it all seemed so simple when I walked in.

By Kim Hawley

I’m a mum ... 48 years on our glorious planet and I have got some stuff to get of my chest!

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