To be fair, I’ve only joined her on a handful of occasions, though I did once endure 90 minutes of Bikram solo – that’s 105 degrees to you – for a story in grad school. I will never do that again. I’d tell you my mental state was elevated thanks to some untapped spiritual well the instructor had revealed within myself. But really, I was just so hot I was seeing shit.
Last night, though, was something different. Billed to me as Hip-Hop Yoga, it was actually more like uptempo Ed Sheeran yoga. There were probably 15 people in there. I was one of three dudes.
The instructor, bedecked in a “Namaste Bitches!” tank-top she’d admittedly reaped from a bachelorette party, began with a lengthy monologue about spirituality and letting the stresses of our days exhale from deep within our souls. There was a lot of heavy breathing and head bowing. This stuff really works for some people. I’m not one of those people.
I lead a busy life. I work a lot. My weekends, especially in the summers, are often spoken for ahead of time, allotted toward bachelor parties and weddings, trips to Maine or New York to see family, or spates of day drinking rationalized under the guise of World Cup nationalism. So, when I set aside an hour or two for fitness, often on weeknights or Saturday mornings, I want to leave breathing hard and with some targeted muscle group aching from exhaustion. In short, if I can choose between exercising my triceps or exercising my psyche, I’m going with skull crushers every time. Continue reading >>