I went to hot yoga last night, again. I hated every second of it but somehow found myself purchasing a ten-pack class package on my way ou the door. This time, the class was slightly more familiar so I had some time to look around at my classmates. There are several things about this class that definitely set it apart from the average aerobics class at your average YWCA (or YMCA as the case may be). First off, it's in Uptown. Everyone in uptown is ripped, has huge boobs, loves pain, and is not afraid to flaunt what they've got. So they all show up to this class wearing one square inch of lycra, and bend into each pose impossibly, and bust out of their lycra impressively, and it's so hot it all seems a bit surreal. And then there was the guy in front of me with the big silver underpants. From the neck up, he looked like the CEO of TCF bank, but underneath there was a lot of hair and skin and underpants. And every time I looked up at the mirror in front of me, I saw the big silver underpants. And eventually there was a steady stream of sweat flowing down from this guy's underpants, and the whole thing seemed a bit impossible.
And now I must go back because I've committed to at least ten more classes.