I am continuing to try and do lots of things that I have never done before as I approach the Big 50!
This week it was Hot Yoga. I had to go alone as every friend I asked said things along the lines of ‘feck off – just come to the pub” and “no feckin way – it will be full of farting skinny vegans’.
Billed as burning 1200 calories in 90 minutes – I was sold!! Hell that’s a mars bar, a bag of chips, a jack daniels and coke and a glass of wine!!
I get there and it appears that people group according to their ‘tribe’. At the front the slim and the beautiful with very trendy tight shorts and crop tops for the women and sppedos for the men (yes seriously!!). At the back it is the chubby tribe with baggy t shirts and leggings. These are my people and I join them. It is roasting – like 1000 degrees roasting. Like inferno and worst hot flush ever roasting. Like spontaneous combustion roasting. JUST ROASTING. And all I have done is roll out my mat and lie on it.
We start with five mins of waggling our elbows like a chicken. Five minutes in and I am literally pouring with my sweat and I suspect the sweat of others though I am trying hard not to think about that. It is ROASTING!!!!!
It is then time for deep breathing. And I get the benefits of deep breathing – I really do. But this isn’t inhaling the fresh crisp Highland air – this is deep breathing the CO2 gases from others, body odour and what I suspect to be farty smells from the vegans who seemed to have had a lot of cauliflower soup in the last 24 hours.
I remember at primary school Davey Gibbons wrote a story about living inside a fart and was sent out of the classroom for being ‘disgusting’. But I think of his story now – identifying with it 45 years later! (how I can remember this event from 45 years ago but can’t remember what day it is today. Menopausal Brain Fog works in mysterious ways!!)
There is now not one single bit of my body that isn’t dripping in sweat. Eve my eyeballs are sweating. My bra is soaking and digging into me. I had wine the night before and seriously it is now leaking out of my pores clashing with the vegan stale kale pong. The guy in front of me has soaking wet shorts and what I hope to feck is sweat rolling down his legs. I make a mental note to never bring anyone I fancy or anyone I want to fancy me along to these classes.
The guy beside me is lying down very still. Virago or whatever the feck the teachers name was had told us not to leave the room but just to lie down if we were struggling so I am hoping that is what he is doing. But he is very still. Menopausal anxiety is kicking in – what if he has died? What if I end up a figure of hate on youtube doing my yoga while the guy beside me is dead and I just don’t care. This leads to more worrying. What if my exes me see me fat and sweaty on youtube and think ‘thank god I let that fat wobbly sweaty nasty inconsiderate woman go’? Virago is showing absolutely no concern for the maybe dead man so maybe I should just focus.
I look at the clock. We are 20 mins in. How the actual fuck can that be? I seriously doubt that I can do another 70 minutes of this bollocks. To my eternal shame if I was given a choice between a cool flannel cloth or a successful Brexit … well put it this way – Theresa would just have to soldier on!
We then have to do an eagle – which involves pretty much wrapping one leg twice round the other and sticking your arse out – I have seen eagles and they bear no resemblance to this. None. The instructor comes to try and adjust me – I have to point out that I have things called thighs – proper thighs – not little pipecleaner legs with a big space betwen them like hers and the front row tribe. So it’s not that I don’t get the concept of wrapping one leg round the other twice – it is just for me a physical impossibility .
Two girls get up and walk out – despite Viragos insistence they stay. I think one said Fuck Off but it might have been Namaste. I feel a little smug to be still there – the leavers are half my age and a quarter of my size. But I have a year of hot flushes on my side – so take that Bitches – and get used to it – coz this — THIS is your future! Actually hot yoga is a good way to practice being menopausal – the heat the sweating the exhaustion – the water running down your inside leg… wanting to tell the skinny bendy instructor to fuck off and just keep fucking off til her entire bendy body has fucked right off….
We then have to half bend and hold – it is a busy class and I may as well be the gynaecologist for the girl in front of me who has worn loose shorts and no pants.
We then (thank god) do some sitting down exercises and again Virago comes to ‘adjust’ me – and again I explain that I totally get the pose in theory but having a menopausal midriff means there isn’t a feckin hope in hell that my head will touch my feckin knee. She gives up and I find I cannot bear my bra digging in anymore so in my best Irene Cara move I whip my sodding wet bra off through my t shirt sleeve and shove it under the towel. Blessed relief! Virago declares it is time for Savasana – I hope and hope it does not involve standing up again. And Hooray it doesn’t – it simply means lying down – and I am so good at that. The maybe dead guy beside me decides to sit up just as we all lie back – he looks dazed – maybe he was just asleep.
Finally it is over – I have done it. I grab my shoes and tear our into the fresh air. It is freezing but I don’t care. My nipples do though – and fly out like torpedos through my sodding wet t shirt. Fuck it – I walk home owning it – I am Kim Kardashian. I am Jordan. I am any one of the ‘here’s my tits now give me money celebrities’ – I swagger down the road refusing to look in any show windows as I know Bernard Manning is more likely to look back than Pamela Anderson. .
I weigh myself the next day
how is that even feckin possible!