Advanced Yoga: An Exercise in Humilation

Have you ever experienced the sheer panic and humiliation of being in a class that's too hard for you? I keep thinking about myself in Algebra II when I needed to be in Integrated Algebra I, or sitting in German for Conversation (don't ask) when I couldn't even understand what the professor was saying in English.

I had that feeling recently at yoga. I rocked up to this all-levels class thinking it's going to be - call me crazy - appropriate for all levels. It wasn't. I've been to more yoga classes than I can count between New York and London, and I've never come across an instructor as willfully out of touch with his students - and, quite frankly, cruel - as this little dude.

He starts the class with a billion sun salutations, which were sped up to a near-comical level. Save for two other people, the entire class is able to keep up with his pace. I'm rushing up and down so quickly, I feel like I'm simply doing belly flops against the smelly mat. I think I heard him say something to me about "grace," but I couldn't hear him above the crashing and panting.

I knew this place wasn't my scene when we were practicing headstands before the 10-minute mark. I stayed in downward dog, figuring I'd be safer letting all of the blood rush to my head than crack my skull open in attempt to keep up with the others.

15 minutes into the class, I mentally checked out when the little yogi demanded,"Bring your anus to your belly button."

So I suffered on, embarrassing myself as I tried to hold positions I hadn't learned in my entire "practice" if you can call it that. I tried to channel a yogic Madonna, as famously shot by Steven Klein, but the resemblance just wasn't there. As I faltered, I received little attention from this man except in the form of disapproving glares. He doted on my more advanced classmates.

He only offered a hand toward the end of the class, when we were practicing handstands. As I tried in vain to do a back bend, he came over to me, and looking bored, abruptly grabbed my ankles and lifted them (sans permission) up to the ceiling. I was completely freaked, both because I felt unstable and because my shirt slid down to my shoulders, leaving entire torso and sports bra in plain view.

"Pull in your belly!" he hissed.

"I can't!"I snapped back. You can only pull in pudge so much, you know.

He plopped me down without warning.

Flustered, I stayed til the last 'shanti shanti.' I left feeling angry and spiritually un-renewed.

How to Disappear Completely: Take a Detoxifying Bath

I'm not really a bath person.

The whole stewing-in-your-own-filth thing and having to clean the tub beforehand puts me off. Also, since I don't have one of those fabulous half-a-dinosaur-egg tubs like they have in Soho House, my narrow bathtub kinda makes me feel huge.

But the other day I gave in, simply because my muscles were so sore, that I shed a little tear every time I sat down to pee. This pain, of course, was a result of me randomly acting like I was Jackie Warner at the gym, after a good month of being a total sloth. Seriously, I was practically playing hacky-sack with a 5 kg medicine ball.

So there I am, drawing my bath. I even light a candle for mood. Surveying the few rarely-used bath oils I have, I go for the Elemental Herbology Detoxifying Bath Infusion, given to me as a birthday gift. It smells really herb-y, in a nice way.

The label says to put two to three capfuls. I pour half the bottle. Oops. After soaking for about 20 minutes, I get up, and I feel absolutely blissful, in a way that I've never really experience from a bath oil. (Calgon, this isn't.)

I don't know if it was the hot hot water or the botanical actives doing their thing, but I seriously felt like I'd shifted into another state. I was so relaxed and completely incapable of carrying on a conversation. I floated to bed.

Spinning. Cancelled. Figures.

I fear spinning.

I've done it about eight times, and it was about eight times I thought my life was going to end on the floor of an East London gym, in a pair of too-tight adidas bike pants with all of my identification locked away.

This morning, I woke up ready to embrace that fear. I yanked on my little bike outfit on and called up the gym to book my space.

"No classes today," said the dude on the line. (It's so not even close to Christmas! Wha??)

Relief washed over my body like a cool rain, but then I got pissed. The ONE day I had the bravery to get on that bike and suffer, my efforts were thwarted.

If I hate it so much, why bother? Well, it was Bobbi Brown who originally inspired me to buck up and try this evil exercise. I used to interview her all of the time for work, and I was struck by her commitment to keeping fit, despite her absolutely manic schedule. She swore by spinning and even went as far as to open her own spinning gym, 3 Sixty Cycling Studio.

I figured it was worth a shot, so last July, I tried it. I'd never sweat that much in my life, and I think that's what you need to do in order to drop some lbs, which is the goal, my friends.

I'm getting back on the bike. Next Saturday. You heard it here.

Zumba-wumba.

I swear I saw Missy Elliott pull some of these moves.

This week I bravely ventured into my first Zumba class. I've heard this "Zumba" name bandied about for some time, but wasn't really sure what I was getting into. Was it dance? Was it aerobics? Was it martial arts and I'd need to hold a stick? I couldn't care less. I needed to hit the gym - it's been a while - and I knew I couldn't be trusted to run my own workout (read: peace after 20 minutes on the elliptical while watching "Fresh Prince").

So to Zumba I went. It was easy to spot the instructor: he was the little Latin sensation with bike pants, a tight toosh and a t-shirt that said "ZUMBA!" on it. He sashayed in with a puffed up little chest and gave us a pitiful introduction. He just flipped on the music, which was kind of amazing in a Ricky Martin "Cup of Life" kind of way, and hopped to it, assuming we'd follow along with his little Peter Pan feet and find the beat somehow, someway. I only bumped into someone once.

The next 60 minutes flew by, and this is coming from someone who (shamefully) loathes exercise. Picture loads of hip popping, box stepping, stomping-and-clapping (which couldn't have burned many calories) and step-ball-changing, which I remembered from my days at Center Stage. But the coolest part were these moves we did where we jerked our heads and ribcages in opposite directions to drumming and these strange motions in which you plie while digging an imaginary grave. It was all very "Get Yr Freak On."

Dare I say it, I'd actually go again.

So tell me: What exercise class keeps you from cutting-and-running?