YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #25 "SAMANTHA'S SWEAT BOX"
Samantha's early Friday morning class is much tougher than Tim's hatha classes and almost always packed, the small room sometimes taking in over 20 participants, so that we are jammed in together, limbs over-lapping, though I am safe from coming in early and taking my territory beside the partition, so that only one other person can occupy what Tim calls “Dell's Cabana.” Tim always lets whomever is searching for a spot when we are crowded know that he or she is always “welcome in Dell's cabana.”
About a month ago I found this new lady who had come earlier than me occupying my spot by the wall. I calmly took the spot beside her next to the other wall as Tim informed her very politely that she was in my usual spot, but I was nice, told the lady, who is middle-aged, that she could have my spot as I took the one beside her and explained I needed a wall, and she introduced herself and tried to be nice but the look I gave her no doubt informed to her that in the future the spot she was occupying was, from here on, verboten, and mine!
Since that time she has stayed away.
Anyway, on this morning, the place filled up quickly and Tim was right around the corner, loosening up on his mat, always a fan of Samantha's class on his non tutoring mornings. As we began warming up, there seemed a stampede of bodies laying down mats on all sides of me, including a lady who plunked down beside me to share the cabana. It was a warm summer morning and already stuffy and airless in the room and I was feeling a little under the weather, a bit sniffly and hot, wondering if I was coming down with some malady. Or was it allergies? I'd had a furious sneezing fit earlier.
As I stretched from my sitting position, touching my toes, loosening my lower back, I counted 22 bodies, all tightly jam-packed, and, 20 minutes into our asansas, I was sweating profusely and feeling feint and weak. I had not eaten the night before because I had gorged myself at lunch and spent the entire night belching and gazing down at a bloated belly.
The room began to close in on me. I felt my shirt become wet as sweat stung my eyes. I seldom sweat in these classes. They are not workouts. While in one strenuous pose, which involved my right foot forward, left back, and tilted to the side with hand angled down as I tried not to collapse, I surveyed my peers to see if any of them were glistening sweat, but, besides the usual sighs, grunts and heavy breathing, nobody seemed to be sweating.
The woman beside me unleashed a sigh of mountainous relief as the pose ended and we stood, lifting arms. My shirt was sweat-splotched. My face was so hot it felt like exploding. My mangled nose began leaking down to my lips and chin and neck. I was convinced I was seriously sick, had the flu, needed to flee the class immediately and go lay down somewhere, maybe in the room next door, the tiny, tiny room reeking of the combination of incense and some kind of liniment and cooled by muted Indian music to soothe agitated souls—a massage cubicle?
All over the yoga center are little sayings, even in the bathroom, like “Health is Wealth.”
We were only halfway through the class, I think. I had to burrow through the rest of this torture, and I had to do it right. I couldn't waver. In the past, I had played grueling athletic events with bad colds, fever, injuries, hangovers so severe I should have been hooked up to an IV and oxygen machine in the emergency room of a hospital, so by God I had to make it here and cease being a big baby, a quitter. But yoga, it brings you to your knees. It crucifies you. A fool should never attempt yoga if he's physically enfeebled. I needed a big, big, icy cold glass of water.
It got worse. Samantha made us do “Tree” and then transition from tree to “Warrior 3” and “Half Moon,” back and forth, continuously, all while remaining on one foot! Sweat ran down my face and neck in rivulets, combining with the drippings from my thrice fractured nose. But I kept at it. I seemed to be working my way through the misery. Working my way through the misery gave me heart. I began to feel a little cooler. Sweat dried on my forehead, which was no longer on fire. Though there was no movement of air in the room, it was as though a breeze touched my face. The sweat was drying everywhere.
Samantha took time off from her poses and cracked the front door, letting in street noises, and sighed in a manner indicating it was stuffy in here.
Was yoga curing my malaise? My throat had been scratchy. My eyes had burned. My sinuses had felt clogged and ponderous. My head ached. All of a sudden it was time for our inversion, the tail end of yoga session. I propped my ass on a block and lifted my legs up. Kept them up for at least two minutes, regulating my breathing.
Then, at last, we lapsed into savasana (shah-vahs-uh-nuh) the final relaxation, a period where I get to think about what has just occurred or day dream or fantasize or in this case create a conversation between Senator Charles Schumer and Trump that I might write when I get home.
Later, everybody but me ommmmed. Then I stood and gazed down at the woman beside me. Middle-aged, she was red faced and glistening and appeared exhausted.
“I was sweating like crazy,” I told her.
She said, “I've never been so hot. I couldn't stop sweating.”
“Hot yoga,” I said.
About a month ago I found this new lady who had come earlier than me occupying my spot by the wall. I calmly took the spot beside her next to the other wall as Tim informed her very politely that she was in my usual spot, but I was nice, told the lady, who is middle-aged, that she could have my spot as I took the one beside her and explained I needed a wall, and she introduced herself and tried to be nice but the look I gave her no doubt informed to her that in the future the spot she was occupying was, from here on, verboten, and mine!
Since that time she has stayed away.
Anyway, on this morning, the place filled up quickly and Tim was right around the corner, loosening up on his mat, always a fan of Samantha's class on his non tutoring mornings. As we began warming up, there seemed a stampede of bodies laying down mats on all sides of me, including a lady who plunked down beside me to share the cabana. It was a warm summer morning and already stuffy and airless in the room and I was feeling a little under the weather, a bit sniffly and hot, wondering if I was coming down with some malady. Or was it allergies? I'd had a furious sneezing fit earlier.
As I stretched from my sitting position, touching my toes, loosening my lower back, I counted 22 bodies, all tightly jam-packed, and, 20 minutes into our asansas, I was sweating profusely and feeling feint and weak. I had not eaten the night before because I had gorged myself at lunch and spent the entire night belching and gazing down at a bloated belly.
The room began to close in on me. I felt my shirt become wet as sweat stung my eyes. I seldom sweat in these classes. They are not workouts. While in one strenuous pose, which involved my right foot forward, left back, and tilted to the side with hand angled down as I tried not to collapse, I surveyed my peers to see if any of them were glistening sweat, but, besides the usual sighs, grunts and heavy breathing, nobody seemed to be sweating.
The woman beside me unleashed a sigh of mountainous relief as the pose ended and we stood, lifting arms. My shirt was sweat-splotched. My face was so hot it felt like exploding. My mangled nose began leaking down to my lips and chin and neck. I was convinced I was seriously sick, had the flu, needed to flee the class immediately and go lay down somewhere, maybe in the room next door, the tiny, tiny room reeking of the combination of incense and some kind of liniment and cooled by muted Indian music to soothe agitated souls—a massage cubicle?
All over the yoga center are little sayings, even in the bathroom, like “Health is Wealth.”
We were only halfway through the class, I think. I had to burrow through the rest of this torture, and I had to do it right. I couldn't waver. In the past, I had played grueling athletic events with bad colds, fever, injuries, hangovers so severe I should have been hooked up to an IV and oxygen machine in the emergency room of a hospital, so by God I had to make it here and cease being a big baby, a quitter. But yoga, it brings you to your knees. It crucifies you. A fool should never attempt yoga if he's physically enfeebled. I needed a big, big, icy cold glass of water.
It got worse. Samantha made us do “Tree” and then transition from tree to “Warrior 3” and “Half Moon,” back and forth, continuously, all while remaining on one foot! Sweat ran down my face and neck in rivulets, combining with the drippings from my thrice fractured nose. But I kept at it. I seemed to be working my way through the misery. Working my way through the misery gave me heart. I began to feel a little cooler. Sweat dried on my forehead, which was no longer on fire. Though there was no movement of air in the room, it was as though a breeze touched my face. The sweat was drying everywhere.
Samantha took time off from her poses and cracked the front door, letting in street noises, and sighed in a manner indicating it was stuffy in here.
Was yoga curing my malaise? My throat had been scratchy. My eyes had burned. My sinuses had felt clogged and ponderous. My head ached. All of a sudden it was time for our inversion, the tail end of yoga session. I propped my ass on a block and lifted my legs up. Kept them up for at least two minutes, regulating my breathing.
Then, at last, we lapsed into savasana (shah-vahs-uh-nuh) the final relaxation, a period where I get to think about what has just occurred or day dream or fantasize or in this case create a conversation between Senator Charles Schumer and Trump that I might write when I get home.
Later, everybody but me ommmmed. Then I stood and gazed down at the woman beside me. Middle-aged, she was red faced and glistening and appeared exhausted.
“I was sweating like crazy,” I told her.
She said, “I've never been so hot. I couldn't stop sweating.”
“Hot yoga,” I said.
