Back in 'Bama

Or, at least, I felt that way as I sweated through my shirt, two towels and the surrounding carpet. (Why carpet, by the way, in a space where people are supposed to be sweating their rear end off? Seems like a poor design choice to me.)

Originally, I was going to meet push-up queen and superman at the Bikram place on Flatbush today but both had to beg off because of various emergencies. Still motivated to move somehow - no matter how uncomfortable it might be - I found myself surrounded by strangers, spraying sweat, while attempting to balance on one leg and 'breathe'.

I was torn between respecting those men who were comfortable enough with themselves that they wore, basically, boxer briefs and nothing else and wishing that I hadn't seen what I did. To quote the sports fan, "What has been seen, cannot be unseen." Luckily, there was a mirror right in front of me, so I just stared into my own eyes, in a weird narcissistic trance.

To be fair, they had to witness me, too. And that wasn't pretty, either.

Hour and a half of Bikram = 20-miler in Alabama in August. At least, sweat-wise. Certain poses became slip-n-slide moves.

Don't know if I'd ever get used to the smell. No one smells pretty in a race, either. There's something about stale sweat trapped in a room with the remnants of previous days' and months' stale sweat that really gets you in the back of the throat.

The things we'll do when we can't do what we want to do.......