Bikram yoga is a hot festering mess. Bucket-list progress: Finding my radiant weight!
It’s easy to romanticize bikram yoga if you haven’t done it in over a year. I made good on my promise to myself last night and got my 168-pound girl body downtown to get my bikram on. I was all excited to go – you know, except for the dealing with people (social anxiety), parking, traffic, mat-etiquette, skimpy-clothing parts. But the exercise I was confident I could get through this time – I would skip out of the studio – like LITERALLY skip – exhibiting that lightness-of-existence Mary Tyler Moore had in the opening sequence of her eponymous TV show.
Yeah, not as magical as I remember. 1.5 hours later and I felt like I had done pretty much all the exercise required of me for the next two years, all the while facing a mental challenge I have no interest in facing – watching my puffy, scantily-clad body (because each garment of clothing means you are one step closer to death when practicing bikram) perform the postures in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that spans the length of the studio. Bikram, please remove the mirrors.