Hot Hot Hot

I am wavering between I can't believe I'm even going to attempt this! and I hope I love it!

I'm going this morning with Heather (an office friend) to try a session of hot yoga.

Which is to say, it's a relatively normal yoga class -- on the slow side, easy for beginners to follow along -- in a 95-degree room.

The theory is that the heat allows your muscles to stretch further, and the excessive sweating (let us not pretend otherwise) flushes toxins from your body. If nothing else, it should be good for the skin, I suppose. I know, it's weird for me -- I hate the heat, and I especially hate sweating. Thus the I can't believe I'm even going to attempt this! attitude. But I'm hoping that if I'm going into it knowingly, it won't be so bad. Or at least maybe I can bundle up my other frustrations into my dislike of the heat and sweating and leave them behind in the shower.

Heather did a hot yoga session last week, already. She said about five minutes into the 90-minute class, she was wondering what she'd gotten into, and fifteen minutes in, she was swearing she'd never do it again. Halfway through, when they switched from standing to floor poses, she decided it wasn't so bad, and at the very end, when the teacher laid a cold cloth over her face, she decided to go back if only for that perfect moment.

I did love my prenatal yoga class, which was with the same studio. It did amazing things for my chronic feet problems -- even only going to the class once a week, I was walking around barefoot without fear. So I'd really like to like this class.

The time could be a problem, though. The class is an hour and a half in the middle of the morning. Probably two hours, once I've factored in a cool shower and changing clothes afterward. At least it's close to the office, so there's minimal transportation time to consider -- five minutes round-trip, even walking. I'm hoping they'll go back to having a one-hour lunchtime class in the fall. You know, if it turns out that I like it.

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Alex was up at 5 this morning. I let him talk for ten minutes or so, hoping he'd go back to sleep, but no dice. (I found out why when I picked him up. If I had that much poo in my diaper, I wouldn't sleep, either.)

Thinking about trying to maneuver around my aching boobs in the hot yoga class, I decided I couldn't take it. So I nursed him, after five days dry. There wasn't much there -- he still killed a 6-ounce bottle half an hour later -- but it eased the worst of the pain. I guess that means that he's weaned (he certainly didn't seem bothered by the lack of boobs for those five days) but I'm not.