We're Not Selling Spare Tires

Incredible how after weathering the trials of motherhood (particularly noteworthy are the special mornings I've woken to the fragrant notes of tot pee because, of course, Maya has wet the spot on my pillow right next to my head), I have become so mellow when faced with what I used to consider epic disasters -- like dumping the entire contents of my Ole Henriksen moisturizer all over the bathroom floor and failing to get even a dime of it on my face. This was indeed a bitter pill to swallow, but, while listening for peeps of possible discontent from Maya eating her breakfast in the living room, I cleaned up the remnants of my exorbitant face cream and tossed the carnage. Surprising, I know, that I am one of those suckers who always opt for the pricey, hard-to-pronounce beauty products that, upon close inspection, have almost identical ingredients to their drugstore siblings. I am a marketer's dream; the fancier the package, extolling bogus product virtues, and the more upscale the store in which it is carried, the more appealing the contents. If La Mer made a Vaseline counterpart, I'd probably choose the fabulous (but likely to bankrupt me) former. Isn't it what's on the outside that really matters? Sometimes, it is.

A new friend of mine (if she were an old friend, she would have already checked it out) miraculously convinced herself and her boyfriend to try Bikram for the first -- and last -- time. She loved the practice but not the instructor; her man, having gone begrudgingly to appease her, hated it, sharing his partner's dislike for whomever led the class and presenting me with an interesting argument about how physically dissonant she was to such a profession. He said she simply didn't fit -- rotund and seemingly hypocritical to be leading such an intense series in which he found it hard to believe, based solely on her appearance, she participated. Nor, according to his critical eye (he is a surgeon, so this is to be expected), did she have any muscle tone or definition whatsoever. I thought this to be particularly curious as Bikram Yoga Instructors are not only guiding students through a demanding practice with strength, encouragement and compassion, they are selling a product; and most people don't want to purchase something aesthetically discordant in the industry of health and wellness (like me and my often sold-out, overpriced skincare).

Would you hire a flabby personal trainer? Not likely. Even if said trainer is well-versed in effective fitness routines and how to produce the results you desire, unless she has the body to match the brain, you'll look elsewhere. At Bikram's Teacher Training he (however insensitively) draws attention to any of the overweight and out-of-shape trainees and makes clear to them if they are to represent his brand, they've got to commit to "no breakfast, no lunch and half a sandwich dinner" until they look the part. This may sound cruel and superficial, but that's business baby.

One of my nearest and dearest instructor buddies and I often remark on the dedication required to maintain the best physiques we possibly can, because we know our well-earned coconut bums are not just for superficial fulfillment -- achieving and maintaining them is our responsibility. Sure, there are a host of mental and emotional benefits to Bikram as well as physical, but if my hot pants start to look less hot, I'll cut out the mochas for a while or risk an empty room and feeling like an impostor. This, loved ones, is the nature of the beast; so shape up or ship out.

I hope to hear more positive accounts, to which I have become accustomed, of friends trying the yoga we put so much of our bodies, minds and emotions into, rather than stories that dishearten and embarrass me and, frankly, tarnish the brand. Often first impressions are the only impressions. My girlfriend and her guy now choose to get their sweat on at Moksha.