Last night I went to Stroga for the 7pm yoga class. It was called "Heated Vinyasa" but I'd done those before, so I figured it would be fine.
And then I left after 20 minutes.
TWENTY MINUTES. What kind of yoga wimp am I?! I'll tell you what kind: the kind that had already sweat through her shirt, and was more focused on kicking the instructor via 3-legged-dog pose than on elongating her spine.
Unrelated: WHY do athletic shirts show every drop of sweat? Isn't that the point of those things? To hide the sweat? I already sweat a lot when I work out, and it's not exactly attractive. If I'm paying a premium for specifically-created athletic apparel, that ish better make it look like I'm not struggling. Because my face is saying the opposite. Loudly.
I felt OK about leaving because we're still doing Insanity (oh my gawd it never ends...) and the other day I put on shorts and didn't hate my legs in shorts for the first time in...ever. Well, if "ever" means "as long as I've noticed my legs." So 16 years. Which is kiiiiind of a big deal, I think.
Unfortunately, my athletic prowess is diminished significantly by the fact that I am a SPAZ and have a billion bruises on my legs. The Foliage says this is not a big deal, but The Foliage is wrong. I feel trashy walking around with visible, blue and purple, splotchy wounds. Also: visible bra straps. I hate. Unless the wearer is stick thin, then it can be fashiony. That is beside the point.
The point is that yoga is harder than I remembered, and instead of finishing the class I ate an oatmeal cookie during my walk to the train. THE END.