Yoga: Stress or Finesse?

Do you remember when yoga was a relaxing experience with maybe 12-15 people in a good size space with low lighting and room temperature heating?  We did power moves to generate our own heat.  The class was two hours long, 15 minutes of which was devoted to shavasana (corpse pose).  We worked hard, but felt relaxed and fully stretched afterward.  The instructor had time to give each of us a little cranial massage while we shavasana-ed.

Like every other sport in the world it seems, yoga has gone the way of extremity.  It might be the next candidate for the X-games.  I was first introduced to Bikram yoga 8 years ago during a visit to Salt Lake.  My mother-in-law told me about this “new workout” in Sugarhouse and so we ventured out, mats and towels in hand (the $10 bed and bath kind, not the $50 slip resistant, super absorbent kind from LuLu).  We entered a medium sized room and performed pose after pose for an hour and a half in 98 degree heat.  I was in agony, longing to exit the room after 30 minutes.  I couldn’t imagine how my mother-in-law, who was probably in the throws of menopause, was surviving the class.  After a literally suffocating 90 minutes, we were finally set free.  My mother-in-law proceeded straight to the locker room and stepped in the cold shower fully clothed.  My menopause theory was confirmed.  I thought I would never go back to hot yoga.  She ended up hurting her back doing yoga and also never went back.  (See the NY Times article “How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body” http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/08/magazine/how-yoga-can-wreck-your-body.html?pagewanted=all)

Today, yoga barely resembles the activity I once enjoyed back in the early part of the millennium.  On my last trip to the yoga studio in Park City, we did power yoga in a bikram-esque environment.  The temperature was 91 degrees and humidity was hovering at 66%.  Usually in those conditions I would be sitting under an umbrella reading a book and sipping a margarita, but today I will be doing power jumps, push ups, lunges and binds.  Not to mention that there are 55 lulu-lemon clad people in a space with a maximum occupancy of 47 and trust me, 47 is a stretch.  As they instruct us in their mellifluous yoga voices to move our mats closer together and touch our neighbor (who is already sweating profusely and is only sporting his compression shorts) in order to make room for more neighbors, I start to panic.  I count.  There were never this many neighbors in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.  Even Mr. Rogers could not stay calm and peaceful surrounded by sweat, germs, heat and half-naked neighbors. 

 “Excuse me, the sign says that maximum occupancy is 47 and there are 50 people in here.”  

“Be quiet you are embarrassing me!” my husband shushes me.

The class should have started by now, but they keep letting people in. Now there is someone blocking the door on their mat.

“That is a violation of the fire code,” I point out.  

“Oh my god, stop!” my husband says.  “Just relax.”

I know that I should be clearing my mind and sending breath into my stiff areas (I don’t think anyone has enough breath to limber up my lack of flexibility - I even try to borrow breath from my neighbor).   Instead I am panting heavily and my mind flits back and forth on the following items:

• If there is a fire, there will be a mass stampede from all of these tree huggers and I won’t get out in time.  Maybe there is enough sweat to put out the fire.  
• How much oxygen is available for 55 people in a small, 91 degree room?  Especially when we are all breathing heavily into every pained muscle?
• OMG my face looks old and red in the mirror.
• Couldn’t that man wear something over his compression shorts?
• What is that terrible sweaty ball smell?
• Please open the door for fresh air, I will OMMMM more loudly if you open the door right now.
• The skin that used to be my boob is creeping out of my sports bra and into my armpit.  Probably because it is not LLL.
• The dog must have used this towel before me, I have dog hair in my mouth.
• My, how LuLu Lemon has profited greatly from this new-found torture, I should have bought stock.

After crow, side crow, ten rounds of warrior-type stances, 5 rounds of full wheel, hand stands and head stands and shoulder stands, 7 pounds of sweat, and way too much contact with my neighbor, we are finally allowed to do the only position that comes naturally to me in such heat - being a corpse.   The teacher reads some enlightening tidbit about tolerance and compassion - especially for - you guessed it - our neighbor.

I have a plan for the next time yoga class is over-crowded, I will get into a “full moon” posture and clear out the room.