Fast Horses

You remember I wrote about taking a hot yoga class last year? How it felt like a near-death experience and was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life? I thought I’d give you an update.

Much to my own shock, I’ve kept up with hot yoga. I know. I can’t believe it, either. After that first class, when I thought I might have to leave by ambulance, I thought, “Why did you buy a five-class pack, Higgins? Why?” Because the thrifty Yankee in me would not allow me to just call it a day and waste $72, even if it meant I’d probably tear my leg out of its socket.

And so I went to the other four classes. After each one, I could have wrung out my shirt and gotten about a cup of sweat. I’d come home, strip down in the mudroom, and my clothes would leave a puddle, readers. A legitimate puddle. During class, sweat streams into my face, so much so that I lost a contact. Twice. I couldn’t wait for those four classes to be up.

But here’s the thing. Writing is a very sedentary activity. I’m looking 60 dead in the eye. I have grandchildren and want to be the kind of nana who can chase them and give them piggyback rides and horsie rides. In my lifetime, I’ve tried aerobics, salsa dancing, cross-country skiing, running, boxing, kick boxing, tae kwon do, tai chi, brisk walking, horseback riding and regular yoga. I’m running out of physical activities to quit.

And thus, lacking imagination and energy to find something else that would allow me to stay spry-ish, I kept on signing up for hot yoga. I learned to sit in the back so other members of the class wouldn’t have to look at me. To stand near the wall in case I teetered (I always teeter). To bring a towel to sit on in the car to absorb my sweat and keep peanut butter crackers in the glove compartment so I don’t go into hyponatremia. I bring two thermoses of water, which I guzzle before I’m through with the 16-minute drive.

My sports bra and I are still often the oldest things in the class. I love being around the fit and graceful youth and often compliment them on their tattoos, beauty, excellent side-crow. I’ve become fairly popular with the teachers, because they can point to me as inspiration porn and say, “Isn’t she brave to even try? God bless.” Sometimes, when I’m balancing on one leg, which is incredibly hard for me and easy for everyone else, the teacher will say, “Yes, Kristan!” and I feel like Rocky in Rocky II.

There are a few people my age who come to the studio. They’re all really good. Like, “I danced with the Bolshoi” and “I was an Olympic hopeful in gymnastics.” Me, I had a best friend in fifth grade who tried to teach me to do a back walkover. She failed. (Not your fault, Amy.) Child’s pose, that symbol of exhaustion, and I are well acquainted.

I have improved, yes. I can even stand on one foot most days, at least on my right foot. Once, I did Crow for three or four seconds before crashing into the mirror. I can hold low plank a respectable amount of time, since brute strength has never been an issue. It’s the grace and agility stuff that are hard.

Then came the day when Victoria was teaching a power class, and I did Warrior Three on both sides without falling. The thought came to me: I’m going to make it through this entire class. And I did! The first time, but not the last. Oh, I still flop to the floor and pray for death, don’t worry. I’m still me.

I have learned to flip my dog. Sometimes, I can get my reluctant forehead to touch my crackly knee. I’m starting to realize that I will never be able to do the hardest poses, and that given my history of breaking and tearing and crutches, maybe I shouldn’t try. My knees often yelp in pain, telling me, “Hey! We’re too old for this, Higgins! A little respect, please!”

Do what you can, the teachers say. Listen to your body. But the truth is, I’m glad I ignored my body protesting for the first couple of months, because now I go to hot yoga four or five times a week, my arms are frickin’ gorgeous, I can run up the stairs, and I have the smug satisfaction of being able to tell my doctor, “You’re goddamn right, I exercise, Dr. H.!”

But best of all, I am a very fast horsie.