Hot Yoga and Naked Ladies

June 25, 2011

It wasn’t easy seeing my feet when looking down naked, so a couple of months ago I took up bikram hot yoga. For those of you who don’t know what it is, it’s yoga but not as you know it.

If you haven’t tried it, give it a go, particularly if you like sweating with near-naked ladies. Unfortunately for me, a lot of other men also like hot semi-naked ladies. It is not unusual to find myself perspiring next to some sweaty young chap in tight white lycra shorts and little else, knowing that every new move he makes will result in a spray of fresh, not very sweet smelling sweat, all over me.

Last Sunday, I arrived early so as to avoid the sweaty men (of whom there were many) and aimed for a mat near Claudia. Claudia is Italian and petite with pretty blond hair that she knots up at the top of her head with a pencil. I imagine that the heat (40 degrees on arriving and rising rising rising by the end of the 90 minute class) determines her choice of exercise gear: a teeny pink and white spotted bikini. A surprising choice of exercise attire, but I’m not complaining.

Of course, bikini aside, Claudia has many other attributes. She is quite possibly the most flexible woman I have exercised with, although admittedly, there haven’t been that many. (The Peacock wife used to make me get my tennis shoes out come Wimbledon time, but my hand/eye co-ordination has never been that good). Anyway, as I was saying, Claudia can do all sorts of things most women can’t. For instance, she can twist one leg around the other like a rope and – this is really remarkable – put all five fingers of each hand under both of her feet and bend, bend, bend her body until her forehead touches the floor. You try it. With straight legs! Needless to say, I can’t get it right. I can’t squeeze all five fingers under each of my feet without toppling over for a start, and my forehead, despite my best efforts, doesn’t even reach my belly button.

The only real problem with this hot yoga lark (other than the sweat and the requirement for men to wear just pants) is that talking in class is a big no no. I’ve often wanted to have a little chat with Claudia, perhaps propose an apres-class drink  (what’s the point of joining a class if you can’t find a new lady friend?), but by the end of the session I can just about stagger to the studio door, by which time lithe little Claudia has skipped out, all glowing and radiant and hopped away on her va va voom green and red scooter.

Six weeks on, I still can’t see my toes, although my forehead hovers somewhere near my belly button. Perhaps one day, she’ll notice.


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