I don’t know if I would have made it to this point in my first Wisconsin winter without hot yoga, which I’ve been practicing regularly since December. When it’s 6° outside and no amount of layering will get me warm, all I want to do is turn the thermostat up as high as it will go and hold a mug of hot coffee in each hand until I thaw. However, we keep getting these pesky gas and electric bills that have a way of discouraging such behavior. Instead, I do hot yoga at a studio that can be as toasty as 100° at all times. Essentially, I cook myself for an hour a couple times a week, and it seems to do the trick.
I’ve never been “athletic” or–okay, fine–even particularly “coordinated,” but I love the deliberateness and precision of yoga, as well as the deep sense of calm it brings. So you can imagine the mellow-shattering horror I experienced the other day when I realized during a lazy, pre class stretch that all those vinyasas have done such a number on my right third toenail that it’s FALLING OFF. Isn’t this only supposed to happen to marathon runners and torture victims?!
In the scope of real global tragedies, this problem is embarrassingly first-world. I am fortunate enough to be able to pay my swollen gas and electric bill every month; to put on my down coat and walk to a yoga studio where I pay for the privilege of doing something good for my body; to come home and complain about all this by writing about it on one of the three computers in my apartment; and to be really, really mad that my plans for a May vacation pedicure seem to be foiled. But I am really, really mad about that.