My husband did hot yoga last week.
For the first time.
And, disturbingly, he loved it.
Let me be clear: I am thrilled he’s found something that apparently aligns his chakras and wrings his pancreas clean or whatever, but as for me? Absolutely not.
First of all, my left foot hasn’t contorted properly since 2021 when, you know, Ewing’s sarcoma decided to Airbnb in my metatarsal. Yoga already sounds like a terrible idea for me, but hot yoga? That’s like choosing to do lunges inside a Crock-Pot.
He said there were nine people total: him, one other guy, six women, and the instructor—who made him take off his socks (strike one) and then told him to stand on a towel so he wouldn’t sweat all over the floor (strike two, and possibly a felony).
He also said it smelled weird in there.
Not just “gym weird,” but something else—like feet had a fight with takeout. I didn’t ask questions, because frankly, I didn’t want answers.
Now, if you’ve never been to hot yoga, picture this: a room heated to roughly the temperature of Satan’s garage, where strangers voluntarily twist into shapes not even God intended, while dripping fluids onto shared surfaces. It’s like a cult meeting for people who own too many water bottles.
He tells me you can bring water in but can’t drink it until after the second break.
Ninety minutes.
In 105-degree heat.
With no water.
This is not yoga. This is Hostage Pilates.
And apparently, you can’t leave. Once you’re in, you’re in. Which means if you’ve got IBS or overactive bladder, your best bet is prayer—or an Imodium/Trospium cocktail and a good luck wish from your GI.
Meanwhile, I’m imagining my husband, drenched, surrounded by eight other human steam engines, trying to “center his energy” while avoiding eye contact with someone’s downward-facing sweat.
And the kicker? He came home absolutely glowing. Not spiritually—just physically. Like someone who’s been microwaved.
He said he felt “great.”
I said, “Fantastic. Take a shower immediately before I divorce you for smelling like hot feet and regret.”
So yeah, he’s already talking about going back again.
Me? I’ll be over here, hydrating like a normal person and avoiding environments where my internal organs might poach themselves.
Hot yoga may be his new thing, but the only “hot” I’m interested in is a latte. Preferably far, far away from anyone’s bare feet.
Absurdities and Fires 