Think you’ve suffered a yoga disaster? Well let me tell you about the hot yoga class where everything went wrong, and I mean everything. I came stepping, hopping and floating into the new year and decided to join a hot yoga session. Little did I know I’d get a little more heat than I bargained for, as the class burst into the fiery pits and became the hot yoga class from hell.
“New year, new yoga class”, I thought to myself, as I played over my positive mantra for 2019. I’d been thinking about joining a hot yoga class for some time: I was excited to try out my new eco-friendly yoga mat from MatMat, I’d been advised by a yogi friend that the vegan-suede surface was perfect for hot yoga as the grip improves as you sweat. Looking super-fresh, and feeling great about sporting a mat that cares for the planet, I rocked into the class looking like the girl-next-door from the rom-com movies. The fantasy didn’t last long.
The Peacock Dream design was fitting; As I started to strut across the room, I could feel my imaginary feathers fluttering open in a proud dance of yoga superiority. I looked around the room to begin to assess my fellow yogis and couldn’t help but notice they were all rather odd. As I rolled out my natural-rubber base, I could feel the eyes of one particularly handsome man looking over to admire my yoga mat. “Success,” I thought, “let’s get moving so I can show off this newfound flexibility.” Unfortunately, that’s not what the class had in store for me.
I’d selected the spot at the front of the class since it was my first hot yoga class and I didn’t want to get lost. It just happened to also be directly in front of my new yoga class crush. He was a dreamy brunette with “I’ll make you avocado toast” eyes. I’d soon realise this wasn’t the prime-time spot I thought it was.
“Take a deep breath in,” the instructor gently whispered, “and a long exhale out”. Wait. Was that… Garlic!? It was as pungent as stagnant water and hummed across my nostrils like a rotten fish. I had wondered why the prime spot had been vacant upon my entrance, now I had my answer. Forced to suffer the stench, I gritted my teeth and tried to take my mind inward. This was just the beginning.
“Send the hip bones back and into downward dog we go.” our garlic-breathed yoga guide instructed us. Just as he did this, I noticed the lady on the hideous PVC mat next to me seemed to be eyeing my posture. It wasn’t my fault that my MatMat proved to be the best yoga mat on the market. She was grimacing and appeared to be enticing me into competing with her. Posture after posture, she continued to move as fast as her slipping hands would take her. After each successful pose, she would take a glance as if to assert that she had won another point in the imaginary match she had declared upon my arrival. Now competing in a haze of garlic, I knew this hot yoga class was condemned and ultimately doomed.
For a brief moment, I managed to ignore the smell and the yoga version of Tyson Fury to my left. As the class fell back into a restful extended child’s pose the ominous sound rippled across my eardrums. A fart. It was the kind that couldn’t feasibly be blamed on the wooden floor or the creak of your dodgy knee. It was most definitely a fart. If any further confirmation had been required, it was received in the form of seven further farts which took place over the remainder of the class. I was giving up hope on the yoga class, but the worst was yet to come.
“Ugh”, moaned the man in the back left corner of the class. “Oou, ugh”, he grunted in an all-too-sexual manner. “For f$*£’s sake,”, cried the lady at the back corner of the class that seemed of an age too old for that language “I’m always falling the f*^$ over.” Between them, they appeared to be forming the soundtrack to the worst hookup in the history of disorderly sexual encounters. I was at breaking point, but the final act was still to play out.
Now faced with a sensory explosion of farts, moans and curse words, I thought the only saving grace would be to grab the deets from my yoga crush and get out! If only things had ended that smoothly!
One final push back into downward dog then evolved into a three-legged dog. Just as the old lady with the mouth of a trooper raised her leg, she fell down with a clatter, “God f****** damn it!”. She had ripped her yoga pants and down she fell, knocking the zen yoga candle with her. Likely due to the methane levels in the room, the class erupted into flames and in a chaotic frenzy, we all ran for the door.
Escaping from the hot yoga, fiery-flames of hell we clattered towards the door of the class too quickly for me to get my crush’s Instagram (let’s be real, I wanted to see those topless photos). Worse still, yoga’s Tyson Fury made sure to beat me out of the class making it game, set, match. Total disaster!
Needless to say, I haven’t returned to a hot yoga class since, but I’m looking forward to rolling out my beautiful yoga mat from MatMat in more tranquil (and less fire filled) studios.