I used to live across the street from a yoga studio offering unlimited classes for a fixed price per month. So I did so much yoga that the yoga instructor memorized the first 6 digits of the phone number I used to register for classes.

So when the person behind the counter of the new yoga studio asked if I'd done “this kind of yoga” before, I replied with humble hubris: “I've done yoga before”.

Only upon opening the door to the room and getting blasted with a wave of heat did I realize what “this kind of yoga” meant: not just hot yoga, hot hot yoga - as I later learned, 115 degrees Fahrenheit yoga!

Though I cast my shirt aside to better bear the heat, 50 minutes in, I thought “if I pass out, they'll probably carry me out”. Every minute, we contorted our bodies into a new pose, then turned to the back wall where the clock confirmed only 1 minute had passed. We repeated this cycle for the remainder of the 75-minute class, and in a fit of pride, I stayed in the room the entire time.

When I left, I did not feel reborn by a baptism of sweat. I felt dead, just dead.