When the chips are down...(Session 1)

Whether you're buying a new toy or trying a new craze, it's always best to read the instructions. If, like me, you are one of 3% of the population identified by the MBTI as an Extraverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving (ENFP) type of person, this is just about the last thing you'll ever consider doing.

Read the instructions (not)
Instead, you'll rip open the packaging, ignoring the little easy-open tag, or especially the label that says "open this end". Grab, touch, feel, shake, listen, guess - yes, it's that button!

This method works - most of the time. The toy/gadget/whatever springs into action, as if by magic. It works so well that onlookers will readily assume that you're some kind of genius, and hey - they'll be right. Most of the time.

Bikram yoga comes with a set of instructions, all of which involve doing things that you really don't want to do, like:

• drinking a lot of water before the class to maintain hydration. (Water - isn't that what fish f*** in?).
  
• Wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else (like, uh, so other people can see my spare tyre)?
  
• Practising on an empty stomach.

Half full/half empty
Q: When is a stomach empty? A: When you're hungry, of course. That was my logic, as I downed, within a matter of minutes, a large bowl of chips (home fries, even!) and sour cream that were bestowed upon me two hours before my first class. Because I knew that, by then, I'd be hungry again.

The chips were bestowed in the style, say, of a tribal offering, by a date I'd got chatting with online. I'd arrived, slightly late, to find them waiting for me on the table at the restaurant. I was fashionably late and the chips were unfashionably cool. A dowry in the redneck tribal tradition, perhaps. With sour cream. It was a cold day, I was hungry - and they were delicious.

Two hours would, I thought, be enough for my stomach to empty. I was wrong, dear reader.

And the room is full of hotties
Arriving at my class with minutes to spare, I had just enough time to take in a couple of what turned out to be important tips at reception. "It's your first class, so sit on the left, away from the heaters. And sit down if you feel giddy or sick."

T minus 90 minutes: So, dressed in a pair of light shorts and a vest/tank-top, I found a place at the left of the class. Imagine my surprise and dismay when, shortly after the teacher entered the room, everyone turned the other way and left suddenly became right and suddenly there I was, right under the heaters.

The heat was oppressive, immediately. Everyone was pretty bare, which was also hot - for a little while. Glistening flesh, tight spandex, cue 70's porn fantasies. Soon, though, my head started to feel progressively lighter, my stomach heavier, and any thoughts of sex were replaced by an uneasy sense of impending discomfort.

Plus ça change
Having practised different styles of yoga intermittently over a period of some ten years, I was prepared for the postures, although slightly fazed by the concept of two sets of each - a bit too boot-camp, I thought. But I persevered. Movement is structured into standing/balancing, sitting and then lying postures, and it all makes perfect sense. In an extreme kind of way.

T minus 70 minutes: Soon, I noticed something very weird happening.
Although I'd expected my chips to have digested and virtually disappeared by the time yoga was underway, they were making something of a comeback. By some strange alchemy, the home fries had taken the form of a lead weight. Remember the story of the Miracle at Cana? In which Christ, out of compassion for thirsty wedding guests, transformed water into wine? This was something not too dissimilar, only with potatoes that transformed themselves into lead. Right there, in my gut. "This too shall pass" I thought. I breathed in hard (heated air - way nasty), and waited.

T minus 50 minutes: Forty minutes into the class, I was feeling wholly nauseated, and had snatched a couple of brief moments on the mat to collect myself, take a rest from hefting the leaden potato bolus, and consider taking flight. Being a Leo, public humiliation isn't really an option. Misery, discomfort, sickness and pain - sure. But looking like an idiot in front of sixty-odd spandex-clad yoga acolytes? Absolument pas! So, in the words of the NoCal (that's San Franciscan, not dietary) yogis, I stayed with the feeling and breathed into the space. And waited for the misery to end.

T minus 40 minutes: At this point, I realised I'd entered some kind of alternative reality or parallel universe. The clock, which I'd been watching every few minutes for the last 50, appeared to have stopped moving. I was experiencing a paused world through a wet and salty lens - so fast was the sweat pouring into my eyes that I'd given up wiping them.

T minus 40 minutes:
T minus 40 minutes:
T minus 40 minutes:
T minus 40 minutes:
T minus 39.5 minutes:

T minus 39 minutes: It was something like that. I breathed in, out, in again, and leant into my posture, which hurt. The lead weight moved too, like Rosemary's Baby flexing its little bat wings. So I breathed some more.

T minus 10 minutes: In most yoga classes, the last ten or so minutes are spent in Shivasana, or corpse pose. So during the last half hour of the class, you get to look forward to unwinding, and then you unwind. This was to be reserved for the last two minutes of my Bikram class, although a lot of the little yogis and yoginis just jumped up and dashed off.

Maybe they thought that if they let people lie out like a corpse, one or two just wouldn't get up. Definitely maybe.