Bikram Yoga is for Sadists

Feeling like my life lacked pain, I decided to join my other sadist friend Khadija this weekend to experience what all the fuss was about Bikram Yoga. I knew that Bikram was practiced in a hot room. What I didn't know, was just how hot it was going to be.

When we arrived at the studio and announced that we were the new kids, we were told our goal for the class was just to stay in it. We made our way into the room to find a spot on the floor. Like an idiot, I came prepared with yoga pants. That's the last time I purchase an item that tells you what its use is in the title. I was better off wearing a snow suit. People began to fill up the room dressed in Speedos and sheer tops, short shorts and head bands. Already they were warming up by striking artful poses in the mirror. Khadija and I traded looks as we merely laid there on the mat, consuming water.

The room smelled like the basement of a youth group that had been flooded and they kept the old moldy carpet. Why they have carpet in a room where people constantly sweat on, I don't know. This would only add to my olfactory senses later on while laying defeated with my face in the floor. Throughout the 90 minute session, the poses proved to be not that difficult. The difficulty for me was trying to do anything without passing out. Anytime we began a pose with our heads down and followed it by standing up, I found myself back on the floor huffing and puffing. I liked to think of these moments of silent defeat more as quiet meditation.

You're asked to watch yourself in the mirror, which I tried very hard not to do. Every time I caught a glimpse of myself, I was met with a red faced girl who looked like she was forced to jump into a volcano and saying her last goodbyes. I began to watch other people gaze at themselves in the mirror instead. They could contort their rubber band bodies into these snake-like positions without so much as a second thought. If you listened long enough, you could hear this consistency of sweat falling from people's bodies.

I was caught several times cheating on certain moves by the teacher who simply nodded in understanding. I'm pretty sure he could hear the rhythm of my heart just before it exploded, so he knew. We paused for a water break as the teacher let us know we could sign up for the next 30 Day Challenge. That's 30 consecutive days of these 90 minute sessions. A woman a few mats away from us apparently just completed hers and said that she'd never felt better. I began to wish I had a bigger urge to cleanse my body of impurities, but all I could think about was the pizza I was going to order when I got home.

Every now and then, a fan would be turned on for a minute or two and I found find myself thanking God. It never lasted long until we were asked to do something like try and stand on our heads. But it really made me thankful that there is such a marvel of technology out there. The next time I attempt this class, I should really work on my silence. Each time the teacher would ask us to put a leg above our heads or touch our toes, I'd find myself laughing and thinking, "That's a good one, Teach!"

We met our goal for the class. We stayed in it. And surprisingly, I'm feeling pretty good today. So what if I fell asleep at 10:30 last night. So what if I had to drink two gallons of water to rehydrate myself. I'm fairly certain that corn dog I ate back in '96 was washed clean from my soul. The only thing that could make Bikram Yoga slightly more unpleasant would be to have us wear clown suits and watch Schindlers List on repeat. In Hell.

Namaste.

Caught Between Some Junk and a Hard Place

Ahh, massages. There's really nothing better. Laying in the dark while you get your kinks worked out, listening to the soothing hum of the muted thoughts in your head. It's quiet time and it's exactly what you need to recharge your batteries.

This weekend, Greg and I decided to finally treat ourselves to a short session of back rubs at a local neighborhood spot. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting the world from this place and if anything, we'd pay for a cheap twenty minutes and at least relieve some shoulder knots.

When you open the door to this one room palace, you realize you're standing a mere five feet from someone laying in the dark behind a curtain. The room is sectioned off into five massage areas and you are asked immediately to lower your voice as to not disturb the others. After a few minutes, Greg was first ushered into his curtained area as I sat wondering who would be the pair of soothing hands I would be sent to. The curtains part, and I see a woman leaving from her session, rolling her neck around with a look of delight. A man follows, whom she thanks and tells him she'll him the same time next week. I think, "Sweet. I've got the guy people come back for. This is going to be great."

Little did I know what would follow. I get partially undressed as instructed, and wait on the table for the Healing Guru to begin. What I soon find, is that this Healing Guru has been blessed with the most useless pair of rough, unskilled and clumsy hands I'd ever meet. He enters the curtained area demanding, "Lady, how many minutes you want?" as he yanks my hair into a pony tail causing my eyes to tear up.

He begins. So in massage world, when real professionals start, they begin at your head. This man put his hands on my shoulders and pushed all of his weight towards my lower back. I wonder, "What is this massive pressure that's holding my head down?" It's his crotch. Yes. This man is pushing his junk as hard as his junk would go against my head. I couldn't move if I wanted to. And yes, I wanted to. I think, "Whatever. It's a body part. Body parts get in the way...I guess." He moves to my left side, and while I feel his elbow so ungracefully jab what feels like a vital internal organ, I feel another surprise on my lifeless arm. His junk.

Yes. It seems his junk made its way over several parts of my massage over those twenty minutes. But if you're laying on your stomach with your arms at your side and a man you've never met before dangling his junk on it, what can you do? I mean honestly...what would you do? I can hear a person snoring beside me in their curtained area. I can hear a person across from me dressing. Had I tried to end this torture, a roomful of paying guests would hear, "Excuse me. Could you please remove your junk from my head?" It seemed more awkward and horrifying to try to stop this situation than just get through it. I tried to close my eyes and go to a happy place. And then coupled with his junk in places you don't want junk to be...he began to burp. And the burping would not stop for another ten minutes.

He cracked my back, he twisted my foot. He removed the lotion off of my back with a warm and horribly scratchy, cheap wash cloth. He pushed, he pulled, he cracked. And the finale, you ask? After he so ungracefully whipped the warmed blanket across me, he continued to hit me as hard as he could. Everywhere. You know those taps you get when you get a pedicure? I honestly don't know why they do this, but they hit you as if to increase circulation. This man beat the ever living shit out of my back, my legs, everywhere.

The timer goes off. I can finally breathe. He demands, "Lady, is good massage?" I mumble something positive if only to push him out of the tent more quickly so I can get dressed and leave. Once we reach home, I show Greg the marks this man left on my back that would continue to remain there two hours later.

From this experience, I learned something quite important: It's not as uncomfortable to ask a stranger to remove their junk from your head as it is to repair your vital organs from being tortured. Get more involved in your association with junk. It's really not worth it.

Ouchies.

You all remember this famous Boss move from the Superbowl...



Here's the aftermath...



Is it wrong that I would feel slightly honored to don a black eye from the Boss' crotch?

Not An Ordinary Thermos Will Do

I've been meaning to write a blog about this for quite some time.This Thermos. This one right here.

This thermos has completely revitalized my entire thought process of hot liquids. I thought I had a thinking process when it came to preserving liquid temperature...I didn't. Adopt this one.

First of all, this Thermos is clearly spectacular. Every morning, I make Hot Chocolate for my commute. The problem with this, as with most hot liquids, is that I'm a slow drinker. So my coffee is always cold, my hot tea is always tepid. I'm constantly putting my mug back in the microwave to reheat it. This Thermos has changed all the that. When I get to work, the Hot Chocolate is still hot. At 4:00 when I think it must be cold, it's not. It's not cold. It's not warm. It's hot.

This Thermos is class all the way. From its sleek metal design to its sturdy flip-cap lid, you will find yourself walking with a little more pride in your step. Because you, consumer, are not only thrifty, you are stylish. The outside of the Thermos stays at room temperature no matter what you have in there. Be it soup, ice water, hot lava...whatev's. This Thermos keeps your hands and comfort in mind. What other invention can you say half as much about?

Another benefit of this modern marvel, is its no-spill design. You can lock this baby up and throw it in your bag without the fear of it spilling. I'm one of those people that triple checks that their mail has safely fallen into the public mail drop. Not with this little number... I no longer live in fear that my wallet will be saturated in my choice of beverage.

I've now told so many people about the magic of this Thermos, that I had my Granny convinced at Christmas dinner that she should invest in one. Check it out: The Thermos Nissan. Get flipped.