My local hot yoga studio had a “Champagne and Svanasana” event on Thursday night sponsored by lululemon, the company that manufacturers the “must-have” yoga and athletic apparel famous for making anyone’s butt look good. The class was free if you signed up with lululemon, who also provided after-class cocktails and munchies. Even though I had already done hot yoga the night before, my sweat glands can handle another 90 minutes when given such enticements.
I suspect that my local hot yoga studio has been struggling. I go 1-2 times a week (dividing my time here and a bigger studio in Cambridge with horrible weekday parking), and class attendance is usually around 5-8 people. Last Thursday, there were 2 of us. It’s great to receive individual attention from the instruction and a gracious reception from the owners, but I worry that the stagnant attendance will cause the studio to close. The heating bills alone must cost a fortune.
So I was gladdened when I showed up on Thursday and found dozens of extremely fit women cavorting through the studio. Mats covered the floor but I found a place next to possibly the least desirable person that one could aspire to do hot yoga in close proximity to: a rather large, older man wearing a bizarre light-blue full-coverage leotard that looked like something the super hero squad rejected. To accommodate the crush, the owner instructed us to move our mats closer together, and when the light-blue leotard man bent over to shift his mat, he knocked me hard in the head with his butt. All told, there were around 70 people squeezed in the tiny space, and they had to turn people away. The teacher — a favorite of mine — was busy socializing with the yogarati, but she greeted me warmly as she made the rounds, saying “This isn’t like our usual Thursday evening class, is it!” with a flush of excitement.
After determining that we could not possibly cram any more people in the studio, we began. It was a pretty standard class, except the teacher choreographed the practice so we would not be jumping back into chatarunga, probably to avoid breaking the floor. When the flow of poses intensified, the room grew not just hot but humid, and I and everyone else sweat in earnest. The teacher paid particular attention to me, giving me at least 4 assists to deepen various poses. The man in the light-blue leotard panted heavily, to the point of distraction. Though disappointed that I could not practice my inversions — I just recently achieved a free-standing tripod handstand as well as a headstand supported against the wall — I did manage to eke out an awesome crow pose.
After the class, I went downstairs to rehydrate with some sparkling wine. The cocktail table was manned by a gauntlet of lululemon employees from the store in the Burlington mall — young, slim beautiful women who glowed. I resisted the urge to comment that I owned thousands of dollars in lululemon stock but not a stitch of their clothing. (In fact, up until last September, my yoga outfit had be cobbled together using a variety of years-old workout gear before I went to the Gap, where a sale supplemented by a Groupon allowed me to purchase 2 whole yoga ensembles roughly for the price of a single lululemon headband.) I bantered lightly with a few people before the crush of people impelled me to the door. I tried to say goodbye to the owners, but they were busy handing out class schedules to the newcomers, who I selfishly hope lose them.
