Hot Yoga: The Sequel Nobody Asked For

Or: Feet, Curry, and Other Forms of Character Development

Friday, at five a.m., my husband—fully of sound mind, at least allegedly—rolled out of bed to go to hot yoga. Voluntarily. While it was still dark outside and I was still negotiating with my bladder about whether it was worth getting up yet.

This time was “shorter,” he said. Just an hour. Because apparently ninety minutes of human simmering was a bit much.

And remember that weird smell he couldn’t identify last time? The one I described as “feet having a fight with takeout”? Mystery solved: it’s curry. There’s an Indian restaurant next door. Thankfully, this time it didn’t smell like tikka masala and despair—but the memory lingers.

He also forgot our yoga mat. Again. Which meant another round on one of those “disinfected community mats,” a phrase that should strike fear into the heart of anyone who’s ever watched a Lysol commercial. Those mats have seen things. They have absorbed things. They’re basically the MRSA of exercise equipment.

When he came home, he reported there were thirteen people packed in this time—nine women, four men, plus the instructor—which is way too many strangers to be sweating in unison. I don’t care if they give you a cookie afterward. There isn’t enough Purell in Northern Virginia to make that sanitary.

Speaking of cookies, they were handing out festive fall ones afterward—pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies with orange frosting and enough sprinkles to qualify as a choking hazard. I never got to find out whether they’d absorbed the ambient curry air, because my son ate mine before I could investigate. He claims it tasted normal. I remain unconvinced. Even if it didn’t taste like curry, I still don’t want baked goods from someone who just marinated in communal sweat. That’s not dessert. That’s a biohazard.

My husband insists he feels amazing afterward—energized, relaxed, spiritually aligned, whatever the buzzword of the week is. I, meanwhile, feel amazing from not being there. My version of self-care involves coffee, temperature control, and zero exposure to other people’s sweat glands.

He’s now talking about going once or twice a week. Which is exactly how cult documentaries begin.