Let's Enter the Studio

So here I am, in a 112 degree heated room with the thermostat at 80 outside. I hiked up my yoga pants as advised, and lost the tank top. So here I am, half-nude in a room with six other half-nude women, with my obviously un-yogaed body exposed. It's much less sexy than you'd think.

Marissa comes into the studio, sporting a headset with a microphone. She looks at us newbies and tells us to stick through it. She tells us no matter what, don't leave in the middle of class. Her saying this makes me want to leave before the class even starts.

The actual details of the class are a blur to me now - kinda like a war veteran with PTSD. My brain blocked out the more traumatizing parts of the experience for the overall state of my mental health. The heat induced feelings of claustrophobia, that I needed to leave before I choked to death. I remember Marissa constantly correcting someone named Jennifer over her headphone. It took about forty minutes into the class to realize she was talking to me. I interrupted her mid-correction of my feet position, even though we weren't supposed to talk once class began. "It's Stefanie, not Jenn-iiii-fer," I spit through my teeth. In my irritation, I think I might have mocked the nice yogi's accent. And she was nice, before and after the class. Once in the studio, she became a boot camp instructor.

I struggled to square my hips towards the front of the room and plant one foot on the ground with the other leg stretched straight ahead of me. As I swayed in the heat, I felt my stomach fall to where my foot met the ground. My mouth filled with saliva. I tried to excuse myself without interrupting the other women.

"Jenn-iiiiiiii-fer, you can't leave."

I pantomime throwing up on the yoga mat she let me borrow. I mouth, I'm sorry.

"Jenn-iiiiiii-fer, stay. You'll be fine." I feel the first heave.

I hear, "Jenn-iiiiii-fer..." as I run through the studio door.

I managed to make it to the bathroom. After I get sick, I immediately feel better and wonder if I can go back into class. The yogi busts into the fitting room where I sat contemplating my next move, and tells me to get back in the room. I apologize again and again, and follow her back into the studio.

I manage to finish the class without further incident. I almost break down in tears at least three times as the yogi berates me, sometimes as Jenn-iii-fer, sometimes as Stefanie. The overall practice leaves me feeling so vulnerable that every time Marissa corrects me, I feel as if I'm being verbally attacked. My friend S. ended up leaving fifteen minutes before the class was over. She was an interesting shade of purple when she finally gave up. Marissa kept telling S. to try again, that she'd be fine, she wasn't about to pass out because Marissa knew the telltale signs of when people were about to pass out. I'm proud of S. for not telling Marissa to go f*ck herself, as S. tends to do when she's frustrated and/or mad. This is one of the reasons her and I get along so well.

As the class drew to a close, Marissa dims the lights and invites us all to lay on the floor and enjoy the hard work we finished. It's rare to be encouraged to only focus on yourself, and let all the thoughts be released from your mind. I do my best, as I'm worried about S., and worried about the date I have after the class is finished, and worried about my thesis due in three weeks...Relaxing seems to be the most difficult part of all that was expected of my body during this class.

It made me throw up

What did?

Bikram yoga, that's what.

Bikram is a form of yoga that moves through 26 poses in either a 60 or 90-minute period. The room where Bikram students practice is heated between 105 to 115 degrees. Students are advised to drink 32 ounces of water before entering a class, bring a bottle of water to drink at designated times during the class, and drink 32 ounces when the class has finished.

It was all my friend's idea. My good buddy S. is a faithful workout partner whenever her and I become simultaneously motivated to get our swell on. Her mother is an avid exerciser, and told S. Bikram yoga is a fantastic way to burn calories. I was told in the dressing room at the yoga studio that this practice actually burns 1,000 calories per hour. Phenomenal.

S. and I, along with a third friend, walked into the Bikram studio together. Solidarity in sisterhood, brother. The woman behind the desk radiated a welcoming calmness. I was happy to be there, despite the slight reek of body odor I experienced walking through the front door. The woman introduced herself as Marissa - pronounced Mar-eeee-sa. Her accent comforted me as she asked us our names, repeating them so she would remember them. I told her how nervous I was, and she laughed warmly in response. "You will be fine, child, just remember to breathe...just make sure to breathe through your nose the whole time unless instructed differently. Breathing through your mouth in the studio could cause you to hyperventilate and faint." She laughed again. I didn't.

She told us where we could change after she ran our credit cards - $25.00 for a trial session of seven days. "Make sure you come back after today. You'll be glad when you do."

S., other friend and I went to the changing area, where three other women were preparing for class. The trio of ladies said hello, and one looked me over. She asked if I had shorts. I wore long yoga pants and a black tank top over a blue sports bra. When I told her I didn’t, she suggested I roll up my pants. “Feel free to take off your shirt in the studio. All of us are half-naked by the end of class.” I’m okay with nudity in most situations, so I was glad to hear that everyone I’d be practicing with was, too.

This post is getting long, huh? I'll leave you hanging here...see the next blog to read what happened in the actual class.

Truth

Since we're going to be friends, I should be honest right from the start.

I'm listening to Def Leppard's "Hysteria" as I write this.

Yes, it's true, and I'm not ashamed to share my choice of soundtrack with my audience...but that's not what I feel compelled to come clean about. I didn't start this blog solely for my philosophical wanderings and shameless self-promotion (I'm going to have a MFA in Professional and Creative Writing with a dual focus on poetry and copywriting as of late May, I'm an associate editor with a small literary press, an assistant instructor at a state university, and a published poet - hire me!). Ahem. I'm also using it to help complete my Master's degree.

When part of the program I'm enrolled in, students are asked to pick an activity to "enrich" themselves. Upon completion of the "enrichment project," students are then expected to prepare an "enrichment presentation." I don't know why I keep surrounding any phrase with "enrichment" with quotation marks, but it feels right. I think I'll continue to do so for the rest of this blog's life. Some of my peers started their own literary rags, mentored kids from underprivileged areas, and created writing groups for war veterans. What do I decide to do? Get my ass to a gym and start seriously practicing yoga.

In a past life, I was a dancer. Ballet and lyrical, with minor forays into jazz and tap. Though it was years ago, I still find myself standing in third position a lot. I'm not claiming to have been a great dancer, but I loved it. The stretches and steps lay dormant in my muscles. They become active in empty houses or dark streets where I have enough room to move and no one around to see what I'm doing. I've used my old costumes for several successful Halloween get-ups, though I added a little extra something to the traditional tutus with fishnet tights and knee high boots. When I type something, I mean slutty.

Anyways, I considered taking up dance again for this "enrichment project." After some research, the cost of my triumphant return had me reconsidering my options. I spend a lot of time by myself, sitting quietly, writing and grading. I needed something to balance this, where I could go and move and see people and forget about my life that stresses me to the point of tears every other day. I'm about to turn twenty-five, I live in my parents' house in a state that bores me, I have no hope of employment after May in sight, and student loans are waiting to eat my face as soon as I graduate. Some stress relief would be good for me, I think.

A good friend of mine suggested her and I try out bikram yoga. I said sure. I told her I could even parlay it into my "enrichment project." She said great! That's not what we were saying after we actually tried it...

So I Begin...

..with creating this personal blog. I've blogged for other people's blogs, I've blogged for other people's companies, but I haven't really blogged for myself since Myspace.com, circa 2004, ruled the indie world. Even then, it was a sporadic blogging, the occasional post with a survey or a funny (well, I thought they were funny) musing on my page.

I like the idea of blogs - informal, chatty forums for the whole world to connect on. However, most of the personal blogs I've read make me want to stab my eyes out and let the contents of my head slowly ooze onto my keyboard - just like Oedipus, so I don't have to see the evils of the world. I hope you enjoy reading my blog. I hope you come back and check up on me occasionally, to make sure I'm still breathing. I hope you value that you will never, ever, EVER see an emoticon used on my blog. Emoticons are for cheaters, those who can't express themselves or their intentions with words, and have to use stupid smiley faces to get their point across. I'm a lot of things, friend, but a cheater I'm not.

So...hi.