BIKRAM YOGA – HOT AS HELL

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by Andy Balloch

 

Bikram goes for 90 minutes. Ninety. Whole. Minutes.

 

Normal exercise classes go for 60 minutes, so once the hour mark approached, I stupidly thought we were going to wind down.

 

When we didn’t, I began to grow suspicious. Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that the class would never end, and that I would die in this hell hole, having lost 83% of my body weight.

 

Ninety minutes is roughly the same amount of time as the Kate Hudson/ Anne Hathaway film Bride Wars.

 

I actually OWN Bride Wars. I bought it for $5 from Small Screen, who desperately wanted to get rid of it. And it’s fairly obvious why. It’s shit. And painful. It’s two Oscar-nominated actresses being terrible. Watching it makes vomiting after six Sambuca shots in a row seem like eating fairy floss.

 

And yet that experience was infinitely better than doing Bikram yoga.

 

There is a special place in hell designed for people who do Bikram yoga.

 

And that place in hell is probably called ‘Bikram yoga’.

 

The Devil wears Lycra, a fabric that has no place in a civilised society. The only people you EVER see wearing Lycra are 80s inspired fitness instructors, Toorak joggers, and 70-year-old men who believe that it will assist them winning the Tour de France when they rock up to cafes and occupy entire outdoor areas with their spindly old whippet-like bodies. Lycra hides NOTHING.

 

And if you happen to actually BE 70, thin, and hairy, I wish for you to hide EVERYTHING.

 

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP UNZIPPING YOUR FLURO YELLOW ONSIE DOWN TO THE NAVEL.

 

JUST. STOP. IT.

 

Anyhoo, back to Bikram.

 

Bikram is a type of yoga. All I knew of yoga is what movies and television have taught me: it’s a bunch of late 20s women in cute crop tops, sitting cross legged, breathing in and out, giggling, glistening, then getting salads and soy lattes afterwards and gossiping about boys.

 

Sounds brilliant. I’m in. Sign me up.

 

Bikram is a bit different to that, in the same way a serial killer with a fondness for Bach and gutting people like sheep is different to, say, chocolate ice-cream.

 

I looked over at my friend, and all I could see was a wet, drippy mess, trying desperately to balance on one leg.

 

It’s hot. I get that. You’re supposed to release toxins whilst doing yoga due to the heat. You know what happens?!

 

YOU POSE IN REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE POSITIONS IN A ROOM THAT IS STUPIDLY HOT.

 

And the poses go for aaaages. “Now just pop your leg behind your ear, balance on the toes of your other foot, and hold your arms straight out. Now hold that for about a year. Hold it. Hold it. Hooooooold it.”

 

Gutting a man like a sheep whilst listening to Bach has never appealed to me more. Oh, and did I mention that it’s hot?

 

Like, guys, really hot. I looked over at my friend, and all I could see was a wet, drippy mess, trying desperately to balance on one leg. HOW DOES THAT HELP HIM?!

 

He’s cute. Girls love him. And yet here, inside a ‘prisoner-of-war camp’ inspired furnace, he looked as though he was melting. Slowly. And painfully. Like the Wicked Witch.

 

So if you ever feel like engaging in this ritualistic torture, feel free. You’ve been warned. I’ll be at home watching Bride Wars.

 

1/5 soy lattes.

 

Follow Andy at @andyballoch

 

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