What Was I Thinking?

So I went to Bikram twice last week. And the second time I lay there pondering why I felt I needed to be there, in that sweatbox. 

I lay down for much of it too - contemplating other things such as a quote I'd read: "The way you handle your sweat is how you handle life."

Apparently I wipe it off. And then take a good lie down.

The second class was not only a punishment by heat and stretching. 

Some foul-bottomed soul was unleashing eggy farts upon my area. So imagine this - if you will, hot, sweaty, humid. And the stench of a million years of everyone's sweat marinading in the sisal.

And then some arsehole - and I mean that literally, is farting almost at regular intervals. 

Some fart-breath foul-bottomed yogi had taken it upon themselves to egg it up and eat curried egg sandwiches before class. 

Are you gagging yet? My goodness, I was. I got to the point I was going to yell out and tell whoever it was that they should go drop their friends off to the pool. I felt like I should suddenly have Tourette's and unleash some wordy beast on their sweat covered hiney. 

Then I contemplated how unBikram that would be of me. Of how I should be accepting of someone's rank egg bottom trumpets. About how I should be at one with methane.

But I couldn't. 

And I haven't been back because some asswipe stole my yoga libido.

Namaste, Farticus, namaste.