Adventure

“You don’t get out much, do you?” a friend asked.

Once again, I’d been exposed for the entire world to see. We’d been enjoying a relaxing girls’ lunch, catching up on all the news about family, men, and shoe styles.

And then it happened. I said, “I’ve never tried it” one time too many. Why couldn’t I learn to just sit there with a mysterious smile on my face? Look how well it’s worked for the Mona Lisa all these years. I’m just not that adventurous. We’ve gone to the same vacation beach house for about twelve years. By the time I head over to the cool new restaurant, there’s a FOR LEASE sign hanging in the window. I wait for movies to come out on DVD.

It’s embarrassing. My idea of a good night includes a mug of Sleepy Time Tea and listening to classical music recorded by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.

But I need to store up material for these feminine tell-alls. Something that will keep me from looking like a complete brick in front of my friends.

So when a sign appeared at the local shopping center that said “Hot Yoga. Ten Sessions for $10,” I thought that I might finally have something to report in the cheap thrills department. Sign me up.

After a brief phone call giving me the outline of the Bikram workout, I showed up early one Saturday morning. A group of ten or fifteen of us assembled in a Zen-like waiting room. From the newcomers they collected the aforementioned ten bucks and gave us a few forms to sign. There was lots of small print about how I wouldn’t sue them if I didn’t have a good time. Should have been a clue. We then moved on to an exercise room quite different from any I’d ever seen before. The walls were dark, the lights were low, and it was friggin’ hot. I’m talking summertime in Miami, menopausal hot flash, didn’t you pay the electric bill so we can turn on the damn air conditioning hot. I was beginning to get the Hot Yoga idea. The regulars took their places close to the front of the room and began stretching in rather suggestive poses.

A large calm man entered the room and fiddled with the thermostat. Thank God. Then he reported that he had adjusted the temperature to bring it UP a bit to the optimal 95-105 degree range. Swell. I’d paid ten dollars for a first class ticket to Hell.

He discussed the routine we would follow for the next hour or so, demonstrating the poses carefully and with reverence. He explained that we might experience mild sensations of light-headedness. I tried hard to follow along but to tell the truth I felt like an idiot. I could see in the mirror that my face was bright red, I was sweating profusely, and my hair was frizzing into a giant Afro reminiscent of the Jackson Five. This is not a good look for me.

Then the large calm man said the most ridiculous thing I have heard in some time. “At this point in the exercise, it is normal to feel nauseous.” That was when I packed up my sweaty old beach towel and headed home. I do not want to be part of any universe in which vomit is normal.

I stepped outside and breathed deeply of the beautiful 70-degree morning. I couldn’t wait to get home and take a nice cool shower. The next time I get together with my girlfriends, I’ll have a new experience to share. But in my book, adventure is vastly overrated.