Yesterday I got an email congratulating me on my one-year anniversary of going to Heat Yoga. A year ago, my friend talked me and my large booty into going to a yoga class in a room that was 105 degrees F. I thought I might die. Seriously, I saw black spots, a white light, and I might have heard the call of angels. Or was it just a buzzing in my ears? Not sure. Based on that first experience, I cannot believe I kept going.
I counted back and over this past year I have gone to Heat Yoga 46 times, with the last 13 times just in month of September. I stopped for several months because I ended up in the ER post-class with a migraine (my own fault) and got a wee bit skittish. But the benefits has been so awesome that I have turned into a yogi. My hips, which have hurt since Jman was born, have gotten 100% better. I am stronger, both mentally and physically. I am both humble and proud. Humble, because 9 times out of 10 I can barely stand on one foot as I grow my "tree". Meanwhile, the skinny b*tches around me can apparently put their foot in their crotch with arms outstretched to the heavens.
Proud, because I am standing on one foot doing "tree" in a 105 degree room carrying an extra 50 lbs around (let's see some of those skinny b*tches do their tree with a 50 lbs sack potatoes strapped to their torso!).
Not that I am bitter about the skinny b*tches. Really, I am not. No, really. Okay, well, maybe a little. But I am working on it. We are all, after all, on our own yoga journey, and there is no judgement in the room. Or if there is, I just have to chalk it up to making everyone else feel better about themselves. All I have to do is set my intention at the beginning of class (99% of the time it is "To Survive") and do my best. Because whether people believe I belong there or not, this yogi is staying.
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