Drip
You know how in yoga class, there’s often this shirtless, hairy guy who struggles through the poses, breathes really loudly, and drips sweat all over the place?
That’s me!
Of late, especially when I practice in what they call a “led” class (as opposed to the self-paced “Mysore style” practice I usually do), I’m all wet and dripping before the first set of Sun Salutations is over and done with.
It sort of freaks me out a bit, but I kind of like it, too, not only because I’m “eliminating toxins” as the yoga-types would have you believe (I myself am a bit skeptical about this; are “toxins” really sweat out from one’s body? And what is a “toxin” anyway? No doubt I perspire some beer molecules from time to time, but am I actually exuding poisonous substances through my pores? I find this kind of difficult to make sense of, but anyway…) but also because it helps slap my ego in the face a little bit; any idea I might have that my asana practice is highly-skilled gushes from me as easily and profusely as does salt water.
It’s a little embarrassing, of course; all around me, you’ve got these lithe young women who are barely glistening; how did they put it in Tennessee Williams’ plays? “Glowing.” They’re “glowing.”
Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a pig—which is another misnomer, I think; do pigs even sweat? It’s more like I’m sweating like a WWF wrestler or maybe one of those athletes on a Gatorade commercial.
Today was one of the most soaked I’ve ever gotten; the room was packed; the heater was on, and the practice was really vigorous. I kind of even grossed-out myself. But you know what? Fuck it. If I had been at a swimming pool or the lake, no one would even have noticed.
In the end, it wasn’t so bad; the girls next to me left lots of space between our mats.
That’s me!
Of late, especially when I practice in what they call a “led” class (as opposed to the self-paced “Mysore style” practice I usually do), I’m all wet and dripping before the first set of Sun Salutations is over and done with.
It sort of freaks me out a bit, but I kind of like it, too, not only because I’m “eliminating toxins” as the yoga-types would have you believe (I myself am a bit skeptical about this; are “toxins” really sweat out from one’s body? And what is a “toxin” anyway? No doubt I perspire some beer molecules from time to time, but am I actually exuding poisonous substances through my pores? I find this kind of difficult to make sense of, but anyway…) but also because it helps slap my ego in the face a little bit; any idea I might have that my asana practice is highly-skilled gushes from me as easily and profusely as does salt water.
It’s a little embarrassing, of course; all around me, you’ve got these lithe young women who are barely glistening; how did they put it in Tennessee Williams’ plays? “Glowing.” They’re “glowing.”
Meanwhile, I’m sweating like a pig—which is another misnomer, I think; do pigs even sweat? It’s more like I’m sweating like a WWF wrestler or maybe one of those athletes on a Gatorade commercial.
Today was one of the most soaked I’ve ever gotten; the room was packed; the heater was on, and the practice was really vigorous. I kind of even grossed-out myself. But you know what? Fuck it. If I had been at a swimming pool or the lake, no one would even have noticed.
In the end, it wasn’t so bad; the girls next to me left lots of space between our mats.
posted by Professor Dave at 5:42 PM
1 Comments:
No amount of enemas, juice cleanses, nor bottled-water-chug-a-lugging will approach the detoxifying power of a device called "the liver".
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