I have a love-hate affair with hot yoga. When I first tried it a couple of years ago, I was pretty smug. I've been a lifelong runner and have practiced non-hot yoga for years, so I naively figured that it wouldn't be too different with the heat cranked up a bit.
And that, my friends, is the kind of attitude that will get you in trouble in any kind of yoga. If you're acting — or even thinking — like a total asshat, you're about to be humbled.
When I first walked into the hot room, I felt like I'd been on the receiving end of a yoga-mat-and-beach-towel scented dutch oven from a freight train made out of boiler rooms. The opening breathing exercise made me want to pass out. When we finally made it to the floor-work portion of the 26 postures, I wanted to crawl underneath my sweat-soaked towel and cry. But I didn't. I finished, and I left class very humbled.
And when I came back the next day — yeah, I probably need my head checked — it was only slightly more tolerable. But I came back because, after 90 minutes of light to moderate torture, I felt incredible. Instead of desperately trying to stretch muscles that were screaming in pain after a 10-mile run, every part of my body felt like it had been lovingly massaged by the universe. Sure, I was sore — my abs in particular felt like they took a pounding — but it's that good kind of soreness you get when you physically push yourself past your perceived limit.
