To Bikram or not to bikram? Or, is it possible to die practicing bikram? That da question…
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DO YOU THINK THIS PIC WAS PHOTOSHOPPED CAUSE I DON’T
Here I am. Tuesday afternoon. Sitting on the couch, pulling on my dirty, ratted hair.
I’m sick. No, I don’t have the flu or the runs or conjunctivitis. I did bikram last night.
I swear…I absolutely do not know why I go. Bikram yoga is cocaine, and baby, I’m freebasing.
Bikram yoga is a hot festering mess. Bucket-list progress: Finding my radiant weight!
not so far off from my experience, except fewer peeps
it all seems so peaceful
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.
Jeneration Why? 