Some like it hotter…

When the sweat ran down my nose like a little waterfall, as it always happened to my grandmother, not that she sweated that much, but she always, really ALWAYS had a drippy nose, no matter how cold or hot it was, no wind, her nose always ran , I thought being in that room was the absolute stupidest idea. This so called hot yoga. Bikram. Sweat to death gymnastics. I have no idea what the correct term is. In short: I hated it. But I couldn’t get out either. And canceling again would not have been possible. After all, I promised Hanna. Three years ago. Because I lost a bet. Neither of us can remember what the bet was about, but we do know what the stakes were.

It was exactly what I imagine hell to be like: ultra hot. Ultra strenuous. Extremely uncomfortable.

The worst part wasn’t the heat or the exercises. The worst part was that the room was full of half-naked women, but you weren’t really allowed to look at them, talk to them, or interact with them in any other way. Logically not. That would be completely wrong. But folks, this is torture. Or to put it another way: I think that’s why there are almost no men in these classes. Because it’s completely overwhelming. Sensory overload squared.

The fact that a yoga teacher is winking at you all the time and saying, “The most important thing is to just stay in it the first time, you just do what you can, just do as much as you can, pay attention to your breathing,” helps not at all. Because she says it so often that everyone keeps looking at you to see if you are already lying on the mat like a dead bone, which of course you are not, you breathe and stretch and bend as needed, even though you just feel like when you were 14 and someone made you drink three Bacardi Breezers on Ex. Five for death.

Somehow I survived. Somehow afterwards I sat in a cafe that was way too small, I don’t understand, such small cafes, you actually sit in the window, no one has room, everyone almost takes off their coat when they get up, but it is ultra cool there. If you go there, everyone goes there. says Hanna. And her yoga crew. So five women, happily sweaty, inspired by the effort, fuck my life.

One of these yoga women was sitting next to me. A little younger than us, I suspected. Big Bikram fan. Has an unlimited subscription. She goes all the time. Improved everything in her life. “Also your account balance?” I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. (Guys! Yoga is extremely expensive!!! You can sweat almost 90 minutes driving back to Bern!)

Somehow the conversation with her took strange turns and at one point we agreed to meet next week. For ice baths. I thought the idea was as stupid as it sounds. We are going to bathe. In the lake. IT IS WINTER! She does that very often. Immune system, she said. Boost and all that. “Also an unlimited subscription?” I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.

The yoga woman looks like a ‘deer’, says Hanna. Hanna names women she finds interchangeable: Rehli. Brown, straight hair, brown eyes, slim. Rehli. But sometimes Rehlis are also blonde. Or black-haired. Hanna is not so strict in her definition. Deer are often beautiful. Not that stunning, but beautiful. We agree on that. They don’t look like that, and I agree with Hanna that she would be remembered. Rather interchangeable. Anyway. Very good. Hanna hates these women. I honestly don’t know what Hanna’s problem is. Definitely a childhood trauma. But she doesn’t have to like women either. I have to like her. And I like her.

Hanna is not happy that I am going swimming with the deer. She thought I had chosen the most boring of all the yoga women. But: She did not give me any information in advance. How was I supposed to know who was exciting? Even.

Yesterday the deer wrote: “Wednesday is Valentine’s Day!”

I replied: «Yes…?»

She writes that we have an appointment then.

Me: “That’s right.” What can I say? Are there really still people who think Valentine’s Day is important? Since she no longer answers, I ask: “And what does that mean now?”

She writes: “It’s VALENTINE’S DAY!!!”

I didn’t answer anymore. I don’t know what she wants to tell me. I wrote Hanna for it. Sent her a screenshot of the conversation. Her response: “I told you it’s a damn deer…”

That doesn’t help me either. Does this mean the date is cancelled? Isn’t ice bathing hot enough for Valentine’s Day? Wasn’t it meant to be a date at all, but rather a nice bath session, which is what you do as yoga friends, and now she wants to tell me she wants to go on a date because it’s Valentine’s Day and unfortunately I’m out? Or should I bring roses? To recite a poem? Play ballads on the guitar? Would I. But not a ballad. Just the song that anyone can do. Don’t think that’s enough.

In short: WHAT DOES SHE WANT TO TELL ME? Everyone?

So long,

Ben