Hot Yoga and Frotch: A Tale of Survival

photo credit: chrisphoto via photopin cc

photo credit: chrisphoto via photopin cc

There are many things I enjoy doing with Stabler. Organized exercise is not one of them. Years ago, when we were baby-free and apparently common sense-free, Stabler said he wanted to try hot yoga. After I cleaned up the Diet Coke I had spit everywhere, I let him plead his case a bit more. He told me of all the supposed benefits of hot yoga and how he realllllly wanted me to go with him. The thing he didn’t realize was that I had already “tried” hot yoga. And by tried I mean I paid $20 to sit in a humid inferno of a room that was a fucking bazillion degrees and crowded with women with perfect little hot yoga bodies while I sat in the fetal position trying to just breathe. So needless to say, I was not very enthusiastic to “try” hot yoga again.

The day came for us to embark on our couples’ journey into hot yogi bliss. From the memories I hadn’t blocked out due to PTSD, I remembered the feeling of being so damn hot that I could feel my eggs cooking inside my ovaries. I prepared a couple of bottles of frozen water for myself and suggested Stabler do the same. He scoffed at my frozen water bottles and instead opted for a normal sized bottle of water. He also started putting on more clothing than I thought was humanly possible.

“You’re going to overheat and die in all that shit.” I was half correct.

We arrive at the yoga studio or whatever fancy name they call it. We pay our fees, sign our waivers and walk into the oven, I mean the hot yoga room. “This isn’t so bad, Sarah,” Stabler tells me, a hint of superiority in his voice. I just gave him a look because I was saving oxygen and brain power for the remaining 89 minutes of torture. People started filing into the room and just when I thought there could not be any less oxygen in the room, three more people scurried in as the instructor began talking. This is almost when I began to blackout. The remainder of the class went a little something like this:

Two minutes in, I look over at Stabler and he has already removed 2 pieces out of the 20 articles of clothing he had on.

A minute later, he chugs the contents of his one non-frozen water bottle, which is now literally boiling. He looks pissed. I am pissed because I cannot breathe and the breaths I am able to manage are ruined because someone, or maybe everyone, smells like feet. Like diseased, sweaty, yeasty feet. I may vomit if I had more energy.

The instructor is telling us to do some move or pose or whatthefuckever and it doesn’t even matter because I have just assumed the “downward facing I’m so out of shape” pose and I cannot move. When did breathing become such work? I look over at Stabler and I think “Aww look at him all trying and shit. I know he’s dying because I am dying and we are both heading towards the light.”

What feels like an hour later but in reality was like ten minutes into the class, I see Stabler eyeing my three (semi) frozen water bottles. He sees me seeing him and makes the move for the bottles. I am too weak to protest and he opens the bottles and dumps the contents all over himself like some sort of weird, sweaty, smelly Flashdance. If I weren’t about to pass out, I would be laughing at him and telling him how ridiculous he looks. He then loses all remaining articles of clothing except for his shorts.

I am now certain that a smell can kill you and am no longer worried about the lack of oxygen to my lungs and brain. Who the actual fuck smells like that?! I try giving the stink eye to all fellow classmates but I only succeed in looking constipated and creepy. Seriously that smell needs to be turned off. I try breathing through my mouth and that is when I am certain death is near because I can now taste the awful smell.

I am trying to think of a way to get the hell out when one guy tries to make his escape. He is shamed horribly by the instructor who tells him “Just sit there and breathe. You can at least do that. I mean you can leave if you can’t breathe but you can breathe so no, you cannot leave.” Or something to that effect.

Well shit. So I’m laying there on my back, sprawled out like a body chalk outline of failure, and I look over and meet Stabler’s eyes as he too lies in this advanced yoga pose. I mouth to him “I fucking hate you.” He mouths “I know. I hate me too.”

We survived the class to the very end, huffing and puffing the nasty feet/crotch smell combo for a whole 90 minutes. I’ve been thinking about this smell for so long that as soon as we get into the car I tell him my new word is “frotch.” He tells me to stop trying to make “frotch” happen. I tell him to go to hell.

photo credit: chrisphoto via photopin cc

25 thoughts on “Hot Yoga and Frotch: A Tale of Survival

  1. OMG, you’re fucking killing me. I peed a little at “downward facing I’m so out of shape.” At least Stabler tried something new? We can forgive him for his naivety and stupidity, right? At this minute, I am happy to have anosmia so I can never smell frotch again. I KNOW THAT SMELL.

    • I’m glad I’m not alone in knowing the frotch smell! When I told him I was writing about “the hot yoga experience” he just shook his head and apologized, again, like three years later lol! Glad you enjoyed it. Next time I may have to include a pee yourself warning ;)

  2. I’m laughing so hard at this!! I, too, have taken these sort of classes, a few times in college. I’d swear rum and cokes…which sounds A LOT better than “frotch”- but I know EXACTLY the smell you’re talking about!!

  3. This is great — and reminds me of our attempt at boot camp….and how we never talked about it again!!!! Lol! Stabeler probably never brought up hot yoga again, huh?!?!

  4. When we meet at BlogU, I am going to immediately fold over into downward dog (which should be called upward ass) then gently move into half pigeon (which should be called my thighs are on fire!). This was hysterical!! My BFF and I have been asked to leave a few yoga classes in our time for inappropriate giggling and the occasional snort. However, no one has kicked us out of hot yoga- no matter how many times we’ve prayed for it. It sucks. It’s hot- like Africa hot. It’s sweaty. And eventually you just run out of clothes to take off. But I will say that if you are in a good studio it never smells like frotch. I promise;) As a hot yoga poser (I only pretend to love it) I LOVE LOVE LOVE this!

    • I can’t wait to meet you at BlogU! I’ll be the redhead in ill fitting clothing, clutching a diet coke and sneaking wine in my bag :) Glad you enjoyed!

  5. I am at work and just dying laughing. I hate yoga and have never tried hot yoga but now I am pretty sure that I never will. I have done boot camp many times. It sucks a lot of balls, too. I know manky smells, I have been on a submarine and they stink like greasy baked farts.

  6. I’ve done hot yoga, I know exactly the smell you are talking about. This is one of the funniest posts I’ve read in a long time. I’m so glad I found it, must be through BlogU FB group, anyway, really funny.

  7. I just laughed so freaking hard at this…. And what IS that SMELL?! I’ve smelled it so many times before in hot yoga…. It really is like roasting belly button lint or rotten toe cheese. How do I find this BlogU FB group! Sounds awesome!

  8. Yessss. Another reason why my yoga pants have never been introduced to yoga…. Stories of frotchy smelling yoga classes. No thanks! ;) husbands are always in competition, I would have taken chalk outline stance from the get go.

    • It was so damn hot I don’t think anyone there was actually wearing yoga pants. And I barely made it to my mat before I assumed the chalk outline position :)

    • Yes there is something horribly wrong with you :) If you attempt to enter the rotten frotch chamber, please let me know about it!

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