Strucknwords

This morning, I took a journey on my mat at my local hot yoga studio.

I’m not a good yoga student; I typically stumble through a yoga class like I stumble getting to the class. Furthermore, it’s the only form of exercise where I need a friend to motivate me, but today, I managed to get there on my own. If someone asked me if I wanted to bike 50 miles or go to a yoga class, I’m gonna pick the biking every time because the mental grind sitting right on top of the holistic physical challenge of yoga simply kicks my ass. It’s almost unbearable and I find myself wanting to run out of the studio, screaming from the immense intensity of it all.

You’re suppose to turn your mind off, and concentrate on your breathing. On top of that, you have to put your body through an insane amount of exertion, and depending on the type of class, this could also include a crazy amount of cardio. Who comes up with these ideas?

On the other hand, yoga can be an invitation to a mind-blowing experience on all levels of your system. Sound familiar? Yes, I compare it to good sex because while a properly done yoga session isn’t as good as an orgasm, every now and then, I can reach a yogasm. That is when I’ve conquered the session, despite falling, posing improperly, grunting awkwardly, being self-conscience about the way my body must appear in my capabilities of a pose, handled my sweaty pig bodily functions, etc. Somehow, despite my hot mess, I manage to reach a climax, unique to my yogaself.

I’m breathing slowly. My sigh on the exhale isn’t one with my body, but it still centers me to focus on my body. After a few rounds of breathing, I’m attentive to my practice. My many selves begin to fall away. I’m in a warm room of dimmed lights, surrounded by muscular men, barely clothed fit women, and sounds of soothing yet rhythmic music. Coming to all fours, my sweat drips with such intensity, that it forms its own waterfall onto my towel. Less than 15 minutes into a 1.30 class, beads of my sweat have formed on my calves and they begin to waterfall off of my body as well. I’m breathing, but the class is in some sort of unison moan. We get to cat pose, and are asked to stick our tongue out, and sigh. We do it.  I want to just keep doing that over and over-sighing with the class, with my tongue hanging out. I fixate on the calves of a man who is in the row in front of me, sweaty and full like soccer legs. I love soccer legs. It motivates me to flow more efficiently through the next round of poses. My breathing is heavy, but I’m now centered. I touch the nape of my neck with my hand, as directed; my inner thighs are shaking from exertion and when we finally get to child pose, I collapse into it as if I’ve been hiking in a desert without water for many hours. My breath is fast and deep. We bend back and I have the spins, and am forced to modify the movement so that I don’t pass out. Even so, I feel incredible. It goes like this for what seems like a lot longer than one hour and thirty minutes.

By the end of the class, my clothes are dripping with sweat, and so is my hair. I have this crystal clear vision for the day while resting on my mat and my thighs are still convulsing from the energy I just had to put forth. I’m famished. For just a second, I feel invincible and I know that everyone else in the room is right there with me.

I for sure had a yogasm today and it was so good. If you don’t yoga, I don’t blame you, but I hope you’re blissful in the gasms that you are reaching, especially the ones that make you smile from the release, the ones that cause your entire body and soul to shake because you worked for them. The ones where you were patient and intentional and reaped all the benefits of success.

Those journeys for sure never get old so it is in our best interest to keep practicing.