In which I survived the Hot Yoga Lounge ... barely

Palm Coast Observer
Opinion

After 20 minutes, it was so bad my sweat was sweating. So I seamlessly transitioned into dead man’s pose, motionless on linoleum while Hot Yoga Lounge owners Heather Doutrick and Amber Corpion kept going strong.

“Breathe through it,” Doutrick told us, the air around her 109 degrees with 30% humidity.

The temperature was all I could think about. That and the fact that I was the only guy in class, the only one not in spandex and the only one without a shred of yoga experience.

I was also the only one staring at the ceiling from his back, watching the fan.

This was supposed to be hilarious. Here’s a guy who limits his athletics to weekly stair-climbs at the Government Services Building: Step right up, everyone, watch him do yoga in a sauna.

It wasn’t until the day of I really started dreading it.

The lounge’s website warns not to eat two hours before class to avoid vomiting, so I didn’t eat for four. And earlier, Corpion advised to bring not one but three towels for mop up.

That’s when I knew the joke was on me. These women were gladiators. I was the guy in the corner panting with foggy glasses.

To compensate, I bought $20 underpants. I tripled my deodorant. I stowed a Tupperware bowl of water in my car for after. I was nervous but ready for a 20-minute session, maybe a 30. Then they tell me the class is an hour and a half.

These broads were diabolical; this confirmed it. They knew after arriving I couldn’t just leave. My shoes were already off. And plus — did I mention the $20 underpants?

“I want you to close your eyes,” Doutrick said, to start, “and decide what you want from the next 90 minutes.”

Don’t throw up, I thought.

“What’s your intention?” she asked us.

Please, don’t throw up.

“What do you hope to accomplish?”

Anything but throw-up.

We then struck standing bow-and-arrow postures. We squatted into imaginary chairs and pretended we were airplanes. When it was over, Doutrick pressed cold, peppermint-scented washcloths on our foreheads.

“The last 90 minutes has been about you,” she said, as we lay there soaked and pitiful. “From my love of yoga to yours, I say, namaste,” a word I was too tired to assume meant anything but “HAHA!”

But by then, I was just glad I didn’t ralph. I survived. I was a true warrior — a fact confirmed by Doutrick and Corpion.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Doutrick asked after class, as if she were flabbergasted.

“C’mon,” I shrugged. “I didn’t do that great ... ”

It wasn’t until the parking lot that I began feeling faint. Corpion said again how well I’d done and, this time, I had to agree. I puffed my chest and stopped in my tracks.

“Amber,” I said. “I really wasn’t worried about it.” Then I motioned from my chin down, presenting my physique.

“Great!” she said. “You should take my advanced class. We do handstands and stuff — you’ll love it.”

I froze. My cheeks went white. I had to think fast.

I darted my hand toward Grace’s Place Bagels & Deli, yelped, “What’s that over there!?” and ran toward my car, flung open the door, jumped inside and hit the gas.

“Namaste, suckers!” I howled, the engine in my ‘99 Civic roaring out of the parking lot and toward somewhere cooler, and calmer, and preferably with pillows.