Inspired by friends who are into hot exercise classes, I tried one last weekend. The first alarm bells rang when I realized that EVERYONE in the studio was ripped as the Rock. That went double for the instructor, a ridiculously fit woman with a marvelous Scottish accent.
Inside the hot room, we lined up our mats in three rows, rather like sardines in a boutique cannery. It was hot and I’m not really into heat, but I reassured myself that I would be fine. I work out all the time so I can eat huge quantities of Cheesies.
The teacher was extremely funny and appealing with her accent and generally bionic demeanor, most notably her rapid fire leaps into the air, hair flying, tattoos gleaming. She scolded us and showed common examples of poor form, saying things like: “I don know wha ya think tha is, but is no doing nuthin fer yer ass.”
Before we went in, my friend told me about a yoga class the bionic goddess taught in which she informed the class that “the light in me does NO see the light in you.” Her lack of interest in our light was quite motivating.
I kept up fine, I thought. I lifted the weights targeting all muscle groups, did the explosive and disorienting cardio in between. Yes, sweat poured off of me, but I told myself that I would not achieve a butt of steel and ripped biceps that everyone else seemed to have if I didn’t give it my absolute best.
Sure, I felt a little drained and screwed up at the end, but that’s not unusual after vigorous exercise.
I thanked the teacher and, on my way out, lost a little focus and had to sit down to decide what I was doing and who I was. Again, not unusual for me, even if I haven’t exerted myself.
By the time I hit the grocery store, I realized something was wrong. I began to stagger as I picked up frozen fruit (critical for project Steel Butt!) My stomach began to cramp. Oh no! I thought. I’m bonking. I knew about bonking from the one marathon I ran when I was thirty and foolhardy.
The key was to eat something. I staggered out of Super Store and into my car. Unfortunately, all I had in the glove box was red licorice Nibs. Nibs aren’t steel butt food, but I looked in the mirror and saw that my face had gone a frightening shade of grey, which didn’t look good with my sweat soaked, hollow-eyed, generally haggard appearance, so I ate two.
The Nibs made my stomach cramp and as I drove home, I wondered in a state of near hallucination if perhaps I’d overdone it on the sit-ups. After all, we did approximately 6000.
By the time I got home, I was alternating between burning hot and freezing cold. I couldn’t feel my butt to tell whether it had gotten steelier or not.
I collapsed into bed and alternated between pulling the covers over me and then throwing them off when I started to feel fiery again. I texted my husband and asked him to get me a sports drink. My electrolytes must be off! Like, way off. I was probably down to zero electrolytes! My entire electrical grid was going down like Los Angeles in a brown out!
My stomach continued to cramp in a way that felt like a combination of labour contractions and food poisoning. I’ve only ever had food poisoning, so I’m just guessing about the contractions part.
Next thing I knew, I was in front of the toilet, throwing up like it was 1989 and I’d just closed down the Brunswick House in Toronto.
Luckily, I felt better after. And weirdly proud. I’ve never thrown up from exercise and it seemed like some sort of achievement.
I now realize that what I gave myself was not buns of steel, but heat exhaustion, the less dangerous cousin of heat stroke.
Now people keep asking me if I’m going to go back to the hot studio and I have refused to say because I don’t want a lecture about how I’m going to get organ failure and die while doing sweaty leaps on a sweat-slicked yoga mat. But the truth is, I’ll probably try it again, at least once. Maybe just for half hour class instead of a full hour. As I mentioned, everyone there was astonishingly fit and I hate the idea of any exercise class getting the best of me. Or maybe I’ll go back because I love having someone say: “If yer waggin’ yer arms around like tha, you might as well no bother because it’s toe-ally useless.”
Toe-ally useless. I’d be willing to go to the brink again for that.
Shown above: a fictionalized version of the last time I felt so bad.