HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?
“ARE YOU SURE that you want to do this?” Celeste’s mother, Erin, pulled into the parking lot on Saturday morning and looked at her daughter. “Hot yoga is not for everyone.” She tucked her short hair behind her ear, and Celeste had a full view of her mother’s skeptical expression. While Celeste did prefer her mother’s relatively new, closely cropped style to the long hair that she’d had for years, it did have its downside: there was no opportunity for flyaway hairs to obscure her face and hide her feelings.
“Hot yoga does not need to be for everyone. But it will be for me. I feel sure that I can become a yoga enthusiast.”
“An enthusiast? I just thought you wanted to try a class with me. I guess we’ll see if you like it.” Erin gave Celeste a solid nod and smiled. “Let’s do it.”
“Yes. Let’s do it,” Celeste repeated more robotically than she cared to. Contractions were not easy these days. “We shall have a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“And we’ve got more coming up. Your father took you to Yale last weekend, so I get to take you to Princeton and U Penn in December. I’m looking forward to watching all of these schools battle it out for your acceptance.”
They headed through the sharp October wind and into the warmth of the building. “I do believe that I am well prepared, yes? I have this yoga mat, a skidless towel that all of the online yoga sites say is quite the trend, and I spent the past few days hydrating sufficiently so that my body will not suffer when I sweat. Of course, I also have this decorative water bottle. My outfit is similar to yours, and I think that it is essential that I look the part as I delve into this new area of interest.”
“I told you that they have mats at the studio that you can use, sweetheart.”
“Erin!” Celeste shrieked. “What in the world would possess you to think that I would consider using a communal mat? I could catch some sort of repulsive fungal infection or worse! Hardly the way to launch my new identity.”
“A new identity? What are you talking about?”
Celeste fidgeted with her gear. “It is nothing.”
Erin eyed her daughter. “You don’t need a new identity. And I believe they clean the mats thoroughly, but I’m glad you like the one we got you. And, for God’s sake, would you please call me ‘Mom’? It’s unnerving when you use my first name.”
Celeste shrugged as they entered the yoga room. She gasped. “Oh dear, it is quite warm in here.”
“It is called hot yoga for a reason. But I’ve found it to be quite invigorating. I think you might like this experience.”
Celeste followed her mother to a spot in the large room and mimicked how her mother set up her things. “Thank you for purchasing all of these lovely starter materials for my new adventure. I know the capri pants were expensive, but I read that low-quality ones can become see-through when saturated with one’s sweat, and that would be humiliating. I believe that is a reasonable concern given that I am already sweating, and I have not yet begun any poses.”
Erin lay back on her mat and closed her eyes. “That’s normal. We get here twenty minutes early to adjust to the heat and let our bodies and minds prepare for class.”
After swooping her long hair onto the top of her head and tying it into a puffy knot of curls, Celeste also spread out on her mat and shut her eyes. Despite worrying that—given how she was already drenched in sweat—performing actual yoga work might be problematic, she did her best to envision success. This class would put her in touch with an untapped side of herself, and she would be ignited with a new fire. Her mother might be dismissive of the entire notion of a new identity, but Celeste was not. Her determination to no longer be on the social-pariah end of the spectrum once she entered college was strong. So she would be strong. And she would be a yogist. Was “yogist” even a word? No, of course it wasn’t. The hundred-and-five-degree temperature was affecting her in a most basic way. Celeste did not forget words. She was becoming a yogi. Or a yogini, which was a word that she thought to be beautiful and romantic. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to convince herself that she was one with the oppressive heat.
Celeste the yogini had a wonderful sound to it. She envisioned herself organizing a yoga club while at college and the eagerness of students to sign up, a crowd around her as she answered questions about times, gave advice for first-timers, and assured everyone that they would all do very well. Leading yoga would propel her to social acceptance, she was sure.
But twenty minutes into the official start of the class, Celeste’s hopes for a yogini lifestyle were diminishing. Hot yoga was despicable. Truly. It was difficult to know if her vision was blurred from the sweat that poured tirelessly into her eyes or from the dizziness that had overtaken her, but in either case, she was undeniably miserable. And hot. Oh Lord, it was hot. She understood from her reading that she was supposed to keep her pose steady and firm, her mind clear and content, and that perfection would come from deep relaxation into this process, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. And, if she recalled correctly, the goal was to reach for what was called the infinite.” At this point, infinite sweat was the only success she’d achieved.
A glance in the mirror reflected that Celeste was shaking and not exactly demonstrating perfect pose. She peeked to see how her mother was doing. It didn’t appear that Erin was anything but deeply involved in reaching for the sky and probably breathing in some sort of soothing, healing manner while the earth aligned around her or whatnot. This standing triangle pose, or “Trikanasana” pose as the instructor called it, was straining her body. And the name sounded horrifyingly reminiscent of one of the many bacteria she was probably being exposed to in this sweat lodge.
Celeste refocused. This was a poor attitude that she was entertaining, and she would allow herself to experience this opportunity to the fullest and find her true calling, and yoga really was the perfect calling for her… if it weren’t for the never-ending, excruciating, stifling heat.
In an effort to combat the uncomfortable temperature, she would simply think about cold things, and those thoughts would trick her body into believing that her skin may not, in fact, dissolve at any moment. Air conditioning, shade, the Bering Sea, industrial freezers, snowmen, salted-caramel ice cream, the nose on the neighbor’s ever-snorting bulldog, the wind atop Mt. Everest… Celeste would give anything to be clinging to the side of a Himalayan mountain right now, frostbite and potentially lost limbs be damned. And since her ambitions of becoming a yoga devotee were quickly evaporating, extreme mountain climber was a more likely new goal.
Celeste rolled onto her side, unable to tolerate hanging her head upside down for one minute longer. Total collapse was the only option right now.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking a break,” Erin whispered from her mat. “It’s very smart to listen to your body. And this is only your first class.”
And her last. Celeste let her eyes close as she lay incapacitated. When the lights dimmed for the last section of the class, she sighed with both relief and discouragement. Yoga was a failure. She was a failure.
No, she scolded herself. No. I will not be defeated by an inability to perform acrobatics in a room that simulates a South American jungle experience. I will not give up on reinventing myself, because reinvention is my out. Or my way in.
Facing this hot misery head-on was the only option. So she did just that.
After dropping her mother at their house, Celeste backed seamlessly into a parallel-parking spot on Mass Ave. in Somerville. “Spatial relations skills aren’t for the meek,” she stated assuredly. “And I am not meek.”
Granted, she felt a tad meek after that rather demanding yoga class; but this was her new life and she would simply view the more difficult parts as divine challenges. The sweat had dried—mostly—from her skin, and she had to admit that although she had perhaps completed only a small fraction of the actual yoga poses, she had at least not up and died during class. That had to be considered an achievement. Part one of her yogini day was over. Now to find her new people.
A quick internet search had helped her locate the perfect post-yoga spot, a natural-foods cafe ten minutes outside of Harvard Square. Deciding it was a good move to present her new self properly, she carried her rolled-up yoga mat via the shoulder strap as well as her canvas tote bag. The yoga mat/tube caught on the doorjamb as she stepped inside the cafe, and while it may have taken two attempts before she was able to cross the threshold without ricocheting off the tube, she did make it in. Celeste was a bit taken aback at the shop’s interior, given that she was not familiar with sitting on bean bags or inhaling musky incense in nearly unlit rooms. But this cafe, from what she ascertained online, was an appropriate place for upcoming yogini like her to socialize. And there were, she saw with delight, girls around her age, all wearing loose-fitting pants and tops and lolling about on floor cushions while awful music drifted through the room.
It was rather dark, so it took a few minutes for Celeste to locate a free bean bag, but she did and dropped clumsily into it, trying to control the grunt that erupted when she landed with a thud.
A woman in a long, patterned skirt approached her with a menu. Celeste was sure that the waitress’ skirt was actually a wall tapestry that had been tied around her waist, and she made a mental note to locate and purchase such a tapestry skirt for herself. Also, long necklaces made with wood beads. “Welcome to The Harvester. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
“The Harvester,” Celeste felt, sounded a tad too much like the title of a horror movie that was set on a farm and less like a sexy yoga cafe, but that was okay. “Thank you so much. I’m delighted to be here, as I feel compelled to replenish both my body and soul after the draining hot yoga session I partook of this morning.”
Tapestry lady shrugged. “Fabulous.”
The menu was somewhat concerning, as Celeste was not familiar with drinks concocted of kale, wheat germ, and amino acids, and such, but she was open to new experiences. She placed her smoothie order with the waitress and smiled as she sat back in her lumpy bean bag chair. Although she had doubts about her choice, a drink dominated by sunflower-seed puree and elderberries, she assumed that the guava-tomato juice base would probably cover up any funny tastes. Maybe.
This would be her new (or first) hang-out spot. How exciting!
A thumping sound came from the next table, where a group of three college-age women in fashionable exercise outfits and numerous jingling bracelets were drinking brightly colored fruit shakes. One had clapped her hands on the table and gasped. “You cannot possibly be serious!” she was saying. In an alarming move, the girl turned in Celeste’s direction. “Tell her.”
Celeste looked around. “Me?” It was too soon for interaction such as this. She did not even have her beverage yet.
“Yes,” the young woman said. “You look like you know what you’re doing. Tell my friend that waxing is essential, or she’s never going to hold onto, much less keep, a man.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed.” Celeste did not recognize her own voice. “Waxing is absolutely essential.” Despite not knowing what waxing was, she felt it important to agree. “Totally.”
“See? This chick knows what she’s talking about. Legs, eyebrows, chin, the whole thing. Gone.”
“The whole thing,” Celeste agreed. “Very important. Wax. Everywhere.”
“Brazilian, right? Tell her she’s got to get a Brazilian if she’s got any kind of self-esteem.”
The girls at the table looked to Celeste for confirmation, so she nodded vigorously and ran a hand through her big curls. This was quite confusing. The girls did not seem like the earth-mother yoga types Celeste had been expecting to find at this place, but she would just roll with the crowd and take lessons in how one should act. “Oh, completely, yes. A Brazilian is a must.”
Celeste was not sure what a Brazilian was, but she would have to get whatever this was. Where did one purchase a Brazilian? A South American specialty store? “I get them all the time. The more expensive, the better.”
“Exactly!” the girl nearly shouted.
“If you insist,” one of her friends said. “I suppose it’ll make me less worried when I’m in Greece next month wearing that thong bikini.”
“Yes,” Celeste added. Her drink arrived, and she took a sip. Okay, it wasn’t good. At all. But it was loaded with nutrition, and yoginis required nutrition. And, based on the taste, they probably also required diarrhea, vomiting, or a combination of the two. She valiantly took a giant swig. Rapid consumption might be the key to getting this down. “Brazilian is the only choice.”
“Sure, it hurts when they do it, but you can’t have any hair peeking out of a bathing suit. Or at naked yoga class. I can’t think of anything more god-awful, can you?” The girl turned to Celeste, “Have you done the naked class in Medford yet? It’s so freaking awesome. Freeing and fabulous.”
“I… I have not. But I am… excited to hear about this,” Celeste said with strained cheer. “I do so relish being naked… in group situations…”
Then the girl made a dramatic ripping sound. “So with waxing, they pull the hair out fast as a whip. and then it’s over. Just yank it all out. It’s the whole reason wax was invented.”
The glass in Celeste’s hand started to shake. “Wait, what?” She was getting an inkling about what waxing meant in this context.
The waxing enthusiast looked to Celeste. “I mean, if she thinks her boyfriend is going to stick around with an out of control situation going on down there, then she’s got to get her head screwed on straight.”
“Down… there?” This sounded more and more alarming.
“It’s our job as women to keep up with feminine maintenance, and this is just part of it. You hear me, girl? And a little decorative bejeweling never hurt either. Something special, yeah?”
That was it. Celeste set down her glass and climbed out of her sunken spot. She stood and chaotically threw her tote bag into the crook of her arm as her yoga mat waved awkwardly in front of her. “No, I do not hear you.” She threw money onto the table and stormed a few feet past their table before whipping around. “I cannot believe I suggested that painfully extricating the entirety of one’s pubic hair in any manner—not to mention such a barbaric one—is a requirement for garnering the commitment of a man. No, no, I refuse to advocate that a woman do anything uncomfortable to her body simply because men have the perverse cultural expectation that all women come to them hairless. Or worse, with assorted gems adorning their genitalia!”
The last thing Celeste heard before she flew out the door was, “Oh. My. God. Did she just say ‘genitalia’ in public?”
Celeste was now officially over this day. She would not be returning to hot yoga, nor would she continue on her path to becoming a yogini. Nor would she be wearing jingling bracelets and drinking repulsive beverages.
And a Brazilian wax was out of the question.