Do sweat it

Never underestimate the power of drunken hopes. One night, after partaking in some bevs with the HHiC, we were walking home and I spied a sign for a new power yoga studio, Prana. As the schedule card was begging for attention in all of its pink and green glory, I picked it from the front door box and tucked it away in my clutch. I reflected on the one Baptiste power yoga class I attended for article research years before yoga awareness carved a permanent place in my life. Six years later, I yearn for the challenge and the heat that had melted the toxins away.

Sober, and weeks later, I coax Babs into working out with me. I suggest we save money by taking Prana up on their offer of a free first class. She is as intrigued and frightened as I.

Prana is calm. Is it the mellowing heat? The natural light flowing through the studio space? The welcoming receptionist offering packets of Emergen-C? I’m still unsure, but what I do know is that I was smitten immediately. The variety of sconces adorning the ceiling of the studio offer distraction. The class is a mix of experienced practitioners and friends tagging along for the first time. Christine greets kindly and convinces us not to push ourselves.

The flow is comfortable because it’s similar to what I practice at home. The heat, oh man, the heat. There is no relief. When my body yearns for a quick breeze, nothing blows by. A few times lightheadedness trickles in and I force a pause. I quickly learn to concentrate on breathing more deeply---reaching inside for relief instead of from the environment.

It’s 95 degrees outside and 96 degrees in the studio.

After 75 minutes, I am well aware why someone would pay $50 for one of the yoga towels available in the lobby. Three pints of water later, I’m deadweight on the couch. My usual craving for spicy food after yoga is quenched with Chicken Randang from Spice & Rice, and attention is amused with episodes of Californication.

I will return. I will be happy to pay. I will bring a bigger towel.